The Armchair Mountaineer

the deeper I go
the deeper I go
green mountains

—Taneda Santōka

Some people climb mountains to breathe rare air; I prefer reading. I’ve been thinking about the Everests of the armchair, books widely acknowledged to be landmarks, but only read by bookworms prepared to trudge a long way uphill. I asked the internet what it thought, ransacked my own notes and scattered reading lists, and here it is: my personal compilation of literary peaks. I left off a few books I’d already read — William Gass’s The Tunnel, Thomas Mann’s Joseph and His Brothers, Anthony Powell’s Dance to the Music of Time, Fyodor Dostoevsky’s The Brothers Karamazov, Herman Melville’s Moby-Dick, Roberto Bolaño’s 2666, Giovanni Bocaccio’s Decameron, Soren Kierkegaard’s Either/Or, each of which would otherwise certainly belong — and those that remain are books (or tightly connected series) I haven’t read. They’re listed in no particular order. They’re not all novels. Perhaps your list would differ? (These are just the chunkers I want to read.) Tell me in the comments.

“Mont Sainte-Victoire,” by Paul Cezanne: 1887.
  1. In Search of Lost Time, by Marcel Proust
  2. The Hebrew Bible: A Translation with Commentary, by Robert Alter
  3. The Man Without Qualities, by Robert Musil
  4. The Life of Reason, by George Santayana
  5. Anniversaries, by Uwe Johnson
  6. War and Peace, by Leo Tolstoy
  7. The Power Broker, by Robert Caro
  8. The Cairo Trilogy, by Naguib Mahfouz
  9. USA, by John Dos Passos
  10. The Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire, by Edward Gibbon
  11. Jerusalem, by Alan Moore
  12. The Faerie Queene, by Edmund Spenser
  13. Miss Macintosh, My Darling, by Marguerite Young
  14. The Tale of Genji, by Murasaki Shikibu
  15. Black Lamb and Gray Falcon, by Rebecca West
  16. The Gormenghast Novels, by Mervyn Peake
  17. Harlot’s Ghost, by Norman Mailer
  18. Kristin Lavransdatter, by Sigrid Undset
  19. Against the Day, by Thomas Pynchon
  20. Burton’s The Arabian Nights
  21. Don Quixote, by Miguel de Cervantes
  22. Blonde, by Joyce Carol Oates
  23. Bleak House, by Charles Dickens
  24. Europe Central, by William T. Vollmann
  25. Studs Lonigan, by James T. Farrell
  26. The Kindly Ones, by Jonathan Littell
  27. The Recognitions, by William Gaddis
  28. The Balkan Trilogy, by Olivia Manning
  29. The Making of Americans, by Gertrude Stein
  30. Middlemarch, by George Eliot
  31. Life and Fate, by Vasily Grossman
  32. The World as Will and Representation, Arthur Schopenhauer
  33. Parade’s End, by Ford Madox Ford
  34. Underworld, by Don DeLillo
  35. Terra Nostra, by Carlos Fuentes
  36. Ulysses, by James Joyce
  37. Civilization and Capitalism, by Fernand Braudel
  38. History, by Elsa Morante
  39. JR, by William Gaddis
  40. Phantom Africa, by Michel Leiris
  41. The Makioka Sisters, by Jun’ichiro Tanizaki
  42. Romance of the Three Kingdoms, by Guanzhong Luo
  43. Testament of Youth, by Vera Brittain
  44. The Abruzzo Trilogy, by Ignazio Silone
  45. On What Matters, by Derek Parfit
  46. The Sleepwalkers, by Hermann Broch
  47. Wolf Solent, by John Cowper Powys
  48. The Magic Mountain, by Thomas Mann
  49. The Family Idiot, by Jean-Paul Sartre
  50. The Golden Bowl, by Henry James
  51. Stages on Life’s Way, by Soren Kierkegaard
  52. Infinite Jest, by David Foster Wallace
  53. The Avignon Quintet, by Lawrence Durell
  54. The Life and Opinions of Tristram Shandy, by Laurence Stern
  55. Pilgrimage, by Dorothy Richardson
  56. The City in History, by Lewis Mumford

Against Forgetting

It was the first time a professor invited me home. I had approached Dr. S— during his office hours to ask for a reading list. Could he tell me, please, one hundred books that would give me a grounding in world history? His response was to rise from his chair, remove the sign he kept outside his door to indicate that he was available to students, and invite me to his house for tea.

Dr. S— taught history, and he was the only professor whose lectures were spectacles worth attending even if you weren’t in his class. He taught without notes, seating himself below the amphitheater of expectant faces and launching into exactly 90 minutes of sparkling anecdote, told with precise dates and names and with a natural storyteller’s flair for the phrase, the punch line, the sensual detail, arranged to illustrate larger trends about the period we were studying. His goal, he liked to say, was to tell a good story while conveying the underlying complexity of history.

He lived on the outskirts of town. As he drove me there, he told me that he and his wife felt the pressure of their teaching-heavy schedules. They were both getting old; each had ambitious scholarly books they wanted to write, but they had begun to fear that the pressure of medical problems — which, because they lived in the US, were turning into financial problems — would keep them teaching too many extra classes ever to finish their projects; they had foregone children to write their books, but even so, some days it seemed hopeless. No one had ever told me that life can sour the high-minded dreams of an intellectual. I began to feel guilty for taking up his time.

We arrived, and immediately I was stunned into silence by his library. My father, a scholarly pastor, had the largest personal library I had previously encountered, but Dr. S— took book ownership to a new level. House and library were coextensive. The books began in the entryway, continued down every hall, lined all four walls of the living room, the kitchen, and, I could only assume, the bedroom, basement, and closets. They certainly lined the bathroom. I pretended to need it, just so I could check.

Dr. S— made us tea. We took our cups — with saucers and tiny spoons and sugar in cubes — into the living room. I was told to sit on the couch. I did so, perching in the exact center as if I might destroy the room’s atmosphere by touching anything. He settled into his reading chair, a piece of furniture evidently much used, creased where he sat, dimpled and shiny on the arms where he rested his elbows to read. A strange wooden contraption hung from the wall beside him. Later, I realized it was a hanging desk which he could pull into place near his right hand to take notes without leaving his chair. The room smelled of paper and ink and tea.

What did I want to talk about? He asked.

Tasting my first sour taste of imposter syndrome, I half-whispered a repetition of my request about a book list.

He nodded thoughtfully and his face fell into an expression I recognized from his classes.

He grew up in a house without books, he told me. He got a scholarship to a university in the UK and realized, the moment he arrived, that every single one of his classmates had a leg up on him. He would have to read fast to catch up, and he would have to retain what he read. From his first semester in university he made a habit of writing a one line summary of each page he read, and he had never stopped. He collected these summaries and cross-referenced them. He didn’t have a good memory and he didn’t read fast, he said, but he was diligent. His notes, a continuously evolving mass over the last fifty years of his life, were downstairs, in over a hundred boxes. They were his life’s work. I might think books or teaching were a scholar’s work, he said, but it was actually reading and taking notes, imposing the will and unity of a single perspective on a vast quantity of argument and information.

I should begin now, he told me, while I was still young, still thirsty, and capable of doing things like asking for 100 books about world history. I had an advantage on him, he said, because I used a computer, and if he could do his life’s research over again with a computer he could have done twice as much. Perhaps he would not now be struggling to finish writing his books before he died. He leaned forward and fixed me with a stare that paralyzed every muscle in my undergraduate body. I felt the world’s spotlight on my startled features. It matters less what you read, he told me, emphasizing each word, than how you take notes. He told me I would pursue various enthusiasms in the course of my life, that sometimes I would read according to a program, often for pleasure; that sometimes I would inhale trash and sometimes chew my way through rebarbative but rewarding feasts of scholarship. I should follow my desires in this regard. It didn’t matter, it would all work out: as long as I knew how to take notes.

Later he gave me the book list I had asked for. I lost it a few years later. But I never lost the memory of Dr. S— telling me to take notes the right way.


But what way is that? Scholars today do have the benefit of computers, of a portable, manipulable, word-searchable exo-brain. But very few of us, in my experience, have a system for taking and organizing our notes that replicates an organic, accessible database like the one Dr. S— had made for himself with slips of paper and boxes. What is the use of masses of material, boolean searchable like Google, acquired aimlessly and stored in an unstructured mass? I have reams of notes, especially from grad school. To ask them a question, so to speak, I would have to read through them all again, excerpting what I need. Word search is a weak substitute for information architecture, like having a memory that can only be activated by precise repetitions of trigger sensations.

It doesn’t have to be this way. Traditions of notebook-keeping were passed down through generations before computers. People kept personal florilegia, common place books, zibaldones, zettelkasten, files of index cards. I remember being taught, in the middle grades, to write quotations on index cards and save them up to use when writing papers. This teaching had faded out by the time I was in highschool and I never heard its like in college. As far as I know, no specific way of using computers has replaced the index card system as a widespread method for organizing one’s research (though I know young historians who have sophisticated systems). I suspect that the advent of computers as the obvious tools for scholarship brought with it a vast destruction of research practices, practices for organizing and accessing the fruit of research. We have better tools, but the best methods for using them have not been widely disseminated. Or if they have, I at least missed the memo.

Of the huge quantity of notes I took over the past decade — I summarized, excerpted, and commented on my reading of about 150 books a year, or about 1500 books since I began to count when I was nineteen, in addition to an uncounted mass of journal articles and essays and short stories — the only really usable portion has the helpful shape it does because I had to organize it in order to use it in my dissertation. The topics and structure of my dissertation imposed order on the research I did for it. Sheer necessity taught me things no professor ever did.

Of the best organized young scholars I know, most structure their notes in that way: in relation to publication. You research toward books and articles. The problem with this exigent architecture is that it can accomplish its purpose without sprouting the organic interconnections or categories that grow up in the less purposeful accretion of a zettelkasten, zibaldone, or commonplace book.

Many young professors (in my former discipline, philosophy, at least) continue to milk the research done for their dissertation for additional articles, until they have to pivot to a new project, formulated in their heads as the next book, for which they conduct new research. Their notes have no afterlife, except for teaching. Those notes were structured to provide exactly the connections necessary for a specific project, and without the tension that project gave them, they are more or less useless. These notes have little resemblance to, for instance, to the generative archive recommended by C. Wright Mills in “On Intellectual Craftsmanship.”

Notes, properly taken and steadily accumulated, should be impossible to “exhaust.”


Once you state the problem clearly to yourself, the solution becomes obvious. I wish I had stated the problem to myself much earlier. What you do is this:

Using some electronic database — perhaps a personal wiki, or a bibliography manager, or even a folder of text files — you begin to compile your research in items of the minimum semantic content. “One thought, one note.”

You tag each item with all the keywords you can think of. You tag it by author and source text if it’s a quotation, by topic and date and controversy and any other relevant classification you can think of.

You put your own thoughts in the same database, and you tag them the same way. When an old thought inspires a new thought, or you change your mind about something, you make a hard link between the note expressing the old thought and the note expressing the new thought.

In the end, as your research grows, you have a mass of notes, on your thinking and on your reading, that can be approached in three ways: by following the hard links between notes, which trace the development of your thinking; by viewing all items collected under a tag or set of tags, which reveals unexpected organic relationships; and by text search, that genuinely computer-specific innovation. These are the three pathways by which a modern scholar can revisit, tour, inspect their research.


I’ve arrived at this obvious solution after leaving academia. I’m a writer now rather than a scholar, a trafficker in belles-lettres and literature rather than monographs and journal articles. And that change in my role has implications for my note-taking.

For one thing, the moment of artistic creativity is quite different — in my case — than the moment of scholarly creativity. It is more inward, more immanent to my biological brain. Memorizing a poem will do more for me than preserving it in a file tagged with lots of relevant keywords, because what I want from it is for it to spontaneously occur to me as I brush up against experiences or texts that could remind me of it. It’s easy to give up on this kind of internalization of research, so to speak, because computers and the internet have made it so easy to find back again anything we’ve read before. But digital recall is different:

The best argument for verse memorization may be that it provides us with knowledge of a qualitatively and physiologically different variety: you take the poem inside you, into your brain chemistry if not your blood, and you know it at a deeper, bodily level than if you simply read it off a screen. Robson puts the point succinctly: “If we do not learn by heart, the heart does not feel the rhythms of poetry as echoes or variations of its own insistent beat.”

Additionally, I have become more and more interested in my reading as a practice with goods internal to the process. I mean, I suppose, that I’m getting back to the sheer contemplative delight that books gave me before I became I scholar who saw them as the means to an end. Once upon a time, they were life. I would return to my favorite passages to re-experience them. The discovery of a new book that resembled an old book I had loved was the most precious discovery possible. And it seems to me the reader’s life becomes exponentially richer with the increase of possibilities for allusion, recognition, memory, interpretation. Note-taking is not a practice exclusive to productive intellectuals, to those in the business of making new texts. It is also part of the secret inner life of any serious reader. But the ideal scholarly database of notes I described above wouldn’t be much help, perhaps, to the serious reader.

Memorization would probably be the best thing. Also, if it’s economically and practically feasible, the possession of a large physical library of treasured texts, with marginalia constituting an immanent database of notes. And, a friend recently pointed out to me, conversation constitutes a kind note-taking. We remember better the ideas and texts we have discussed with other people. Conversation, perhaps, constitutes the oldest form of note-taking. Many readers also keep personal journals in which notes about what they’re reading share the page with reflections on their own lives.

What would it mean to best make use of new technologies in this context? How might a computer improve the memorization, immanent marginalia, discussion, and private note-taking of the serious reader? The answer is less obvious to me than it was in the case of scholarship.

But I can’t get Dr. S—’s urgent words out of my head. I still believe them.

It matters less what you read than how you take notes.

The Neapolitan Quartet, by Elena Ferrante

In Italy, I have decided to read Italian things. In 2018 that means Elena Ferrante.

I don’t need to tell you who she is, because if you’re the sort of person who reads a blog like mine, you know who she is. Years ago, I started My Brilliant Friend — the first volume of a quartet that is really one long novel — but I stopped reading. I’m anti-hype, by temperament not conviction. This prejudice has ruined as many opportunities as it has saved me botherations, it’s not admirable or contemptible, it’s just the way I am. The volume of the conversation around Ferrante scared me away like some nocturnal animal frightened by the din of garbage cans at his scavenging ground. But now I’ve come nosing back, and this time I made it to the end.

The books exacted an intensity of concentration from me — when I should have been sleeping, eating, working — that only a certain type of novel can. Narrative tension alone doesn’t hold my attention like that. But when narrative tension is married to a certain kind of raw psychological drama concerning death, isolation, meaning, or freedom — as in Dostoevsky, Simenon’s “romans durs,” or the Neapolitan Quartet — I’m helpless. I’d like to write books like that. I think of them as existential thrillers.

Ferrante’s existential thriller is the story of a lifelong friendship, begun in the 1950s, in a violent, impoverished neighborhood in Naples, and carried on through acts of love and betrayal until the early 2000s. The inner occasion for the first-person writing of the novel is that when one of the friends, Lila, disappears, the other, Elena, sits down to capture in writing all she can remember about her friend. Their friendship is agonistic but true. Elena has always admired Lila, whose intelligence and effortless excellence in all pursuits, but especially in writing, represents an ideal that both electrifies Elena’s ambitions and remorselessly devalues her accomplishments. The ideal is mostly virtual: Elena’s imagination of what Lila could have done, in slightly different circumstances, often makes her suspect that what she, Elena, has in fact done is worthless. But of the two, Elena is the one who appears — outwardly — successful. She has used education, marriage, and writing to escape the deadly gravity of Naples.

The novel hews closely to its subject, to the friendship itself, which defines the book’s structure and limits rather than any conventions of narrative pattern. Within that structure, the novel takes up and puts down a variety of genres, the romance, the crime story, the bildungsroman, and others, contextualizing them all within the friendship itself, a structure more tenacious and complex than any individual plot. In Frantumaglia, a volume of letters and interviews, Ferrante writes (italics mine):

Verisimilitude is the real that has long since found a reassuring symbolism. The writer, on the other hand, has the job of describing what escapes the story, what escapes the narrative order. We have to get as far away as possible from verisimilitude and instead shrink the distance to the true heart of our experience.

The Neapolitan Quartet escapes “the narrative order” by repeatedly not ending where you think it might. I read in another interview somewhere (I can’t find it: maybe I made it up, but it’s true anyway) an observation by Ferrante that the book could have a “happy ending” if she had chosen to end it at any number of points. More, it could have had a cadenced resolution — happy or unhappy — at numerous points, because it folds the complete structure of other story-types into something larger than story, because it continually sublates narrative order into something which narrative can, at best, articulate — the shape of a human relationship seen as a whole, in the richness that defies the simplifications of judgment and the poverty that preserves ambiguity.

What I love about this book, about all existential thrillers, is the way their frame of narrative tension — the reversals and revelations, betrayals and recognitions, fights and seductions — function like the frame of a picture, to emphasize all they do not contain, to open onto an unsettling view, bottomless and dark. The “thriller” aspect is an intentionally inadequate container for the “existential” aspect. They are 3am books: books you stay up to 3am reading, that also leave you with the kind of thoughts you would have if you woke up at 3am.

Ongoingness, by Sarah Manguso

Ongoingness is subtitled “the end of a diary.” It’s also about the end of Sarah Manguso, about how motherhood reconciled her to death. Prior to parturition, she kept a journal for 25 years. It was her “defense against waking up at the end of my life and realizing I’d missed it.” In her diary she built dikes against forgetfulness. I sympathize. I have a diary too, whose hours I keep with a desperation that smells of fear. If I miss a day, it feels as if the day failed to reach its destination. Is it pathetic to see the page as the destination of the day? You can imagine the diarist, ink-stained and bespectacled, looking up at the end of life and realizing he, too, had missed it; he had embalmed it before it was gone. After she gave birth, Manguso’s diary habits changed. “[T]he baby became a little boy,” she says, “who needed me more than I needed to write in the diary.” She decided that “the best thing about time passing is the privilege of running out of it, of watching the wave of mortality break over me and everyone I know.” Maybe I need to have a baby?

Until just last week, one thing I didn’t think I needed to have was Sarah Manguso’s Ongoingness. Her name was not unknown to me. If you care about the contemporary essay, particularly the “lyric essay,” you probably know of her too. I’d only read 300 Arguments, a slight if entertaining collection of aphorisms. While I was in the London Review Bookstore in search of a paper copy of Robert Musil’s The Man Without Qualities, I saw Ongoingness. I won’t say I bought it for its cover, but its cover was the proximate cause. A few blocks away in a pub, I read it in one go. It’s made to be read that way. It’s 88 pages long, each page devoted to a thought, some thoughts only a few sentences long.


I enjoy the talk of diaries; I appreciate being made to face the pathological nature of diary-addiction; but I’m not sure I buy Manguso’s conclusion. From the mysticism of finitude expressed in the joy of watching the wave of mortality break over her, she turns to the consolations of pseudo-immortality. This is from the last page of the book: “light . . . shines triumphant from the next of the living, and when their time is up, their potential spent, the light will move along to the next brightest, and the next.” Like all forms of pseudo-immortality, however, the drawback of reproduction is that it’s not, in fact, immortality. Not even on its own terms. The species will end. It will end well before the heat-death of the universe. At best, participation in the passing on of genes is a temporary reprieve.

I guess I’m team diary? It seems to me that if the diary as a tool for attending to the present can be replaced by a child who will carry on your “light,” then it was never a tool for attending to the present in the first place.

Like most people, I think, I spend a lot of time in my head, just hanging out inspecting the contents of my memory. I do that in bed; while riding public transit, queuing up, cooking, working out, taking walks; in those moments between bouts of focus when I stare at the wall. The untended memory drifts toward regret. I have a tendency to ruminate on shame and inadequacy. What I would prefer to do in my head is look over the more interesting of my perceptions and contemplate the brighter of my thoughts. For me, writing in a diary is about selecting those perceptions and thoughts, putting them on the shelves for idle handling throughout my days.

Franz Kafka was also an inveterate diarist. In his biography of Kafka, Reiner Stach compares him to “a photographer who spends the evening sorting through the optic yield of the day.” Kafka had his doubts about the practice. He came to suspect there was an inverse relationship between his prospects for romantic fulfillment and his writing. He struggled with the idea that a commitment to literary observation entailed a commitment to almost metaphysical bachelorhood, bachelorhood not just as alienation from the nuclear family but as alienation from the human race. Would he always be the gargoyle watching from the cornice?

Stach describes a joint vacation Kafka took with Max Brod. They had decided to keep travel journals. The idea excited Kafka because note-taking seemed a better way of taking something genuinely personal home from the trip — his impressions — than buying souvenirs or taking photographs. “But Brod was skeptical and instantly put his finger on the drawback,” writes Stach:

The danger of taking such extensive notes is that one misses out on many impressions that one might have made for even more interesting notes. Isn’t writing while traveling like closing one’s eyes, Brod wondered, after which one has to keep refocusing one’s attention.

Kafka appears to have recognized that this problem is more universal than travel writing: it applies to life itself. Could he commit to literature in a serious way and still participate in life? Wouldn’t it be like closing his eyes? In fact, as he slept his afternoons away and retreated from the life of his family into the silent watches of the night, hadn’t he closed his eyes already? Such thoughts could lead to fearful reflections, like this passage in a letter:

[W]hat frail or even nonexistent ground I live on, over a darkness from which the dark power emerges according to its will and, heedless of my stammering destroys my life. Writing sustains me, but isn’t it more accurate to say that it sustains this kind of life? […] Writing is a sweet and wonderful reward, but for what? In the night it became clear to me, as clear as a child’s visual instruction, that it is the reward for serving the devil.

Kafka never married or had children, though he did end his days in the care of a woman he loved. I wonder if he looked up at the end, considered his life, and decided he’d missed it? Maybe. Maybe I should have baby…