50 Books to Read Before You Die

words to inspire before you expire

Page 26 of 33

“‘It is wonderful,’ replied Wickham, ‘for almost all [Mr. Darcy’s] actions may be traced to pride; and pride had often been his best friend. It has connected him nearer with virtue than with any other feeling. But we are none of us consistent, and in his behavior to me there were stronger impulses even than pride.’

‘Can such abominable pride as his have ever done him good?’

‘Yes. It has often led him to be liberal and generous, to give his money freely, to display hospitality, to assist his tenants, and relieve the poor. Family pride, and filial pride—for he is very proud of what his father was—have done this. Not to appear to disgrace his family, to degenerate from the popular qualities, or lose the influence of the Pemberley House, is a powerful motive.'”

—from Pride and Prejudice by Jane Austen

“‘[H]e wrote some verses on her, and very pretty they were.’

‘And so ended his affection,’ said Elizabeth impatiently. ‘There has been many a one, I fancy, overcome in the same way. I wonder who first discovered the efficacy of poetry in driving away love!’

‘I have been used to consider poetry as the food of love,’ said Darcy.

‘Of a fine, stout, healthy love it may. Everything nourishes what is strong already. But if it be only a slight, thin sort of inclination, I am convinced that one good sonnet will starve it entirely away.'”

—from Pride and Prejudice by Jane Austen

Off-Topic: Harlem Renaissance Favorites

Hello again, class.

While it’s still Black History month, I want to do a little digging into one of the bright spots in literary history: the Harlem Renaissance. I am not an expert, but I know a little . . . enough to share my favorite writings from the period.

The Harlem Renaissance was an energized rebirth of African-American art and culture. After the Civil War and Reconstruction had dramatically changed (or tried to change) racial relationships in the South, there was a period called the Great Migration—a majority of the black population in America moved North. Within the walls of segregation, black Americans from all over the country began to culturally clash and grow with each other, churning out art, music, and literature.

From about 1917-1936, America’s black population caused a cultural explosion. The renaissance was the wildfire caused by the spark of the Civil War, as well as the prologue to the Civil Rights Movement and race relations in America throughout the 20th Century. And the literature—of which I’ve read a small percentage—is incredible.

I’ve made a list of my favorites (not the best, not the most important . . . just my favorites).


Poet Countee Cullen

  1. “Heritage” (Poem) by Countee Cullen:  To sum up this poem, it’s about a black man struggling with the foreignness of his African heritage—he is an American, no matter how much America wants him to be African. He poetically describes stereotypical African imagery and culture, and it feels strange to him . . . a feeling both awkward and haunting. (Favorite Lines: “Spicy grove, cinnamon tree, What is Africa to me?“)

  2. “America” (Poem) by Langston Hughes: Few poets capture the dream of America as well as Hughes, and “America” does that and more. It is a celebration of the American melting pot, and the reputation America has had as the outcast whose arms are open to other outcasts. There is a critical tone, but it’s surrounded by hope for America’s future. (Favorite Lines: “You know me, Dream of my Dreams, I am America. I am America seeking the stars.”)

    Author Langston Hughes

  3. “The Negro Artist and the Racial Mountain” (Essay) by Langston Hughes: This nonfiction piece about art and race is eye-opening, and I can only imagine how much it revolutionized a future for black artists at the time it was written. It talks about the systematic favoring of white people within the black community, and that the only way black artists can succeed is by being aware of—and subverting—that favoritism. (Favorite Lines: “But this is the mountain standing in the way of any true Negro art in America—this urge within the race toward whiteness, the desire to pour racial individuality into the mold of American standardization, and to be as little Negro and as much American as possible.”)

  4. “How It Feels to Be Colored Me” (Essay) by Zora Neale Hurston: Here is Hurston’s biographical essay about her coming to understand her race, in terms of skin color and culture. She beautifully describes her childhood discovery of her colored-ness, and where that belongs in her citizenship, her spirituality, her art, and her relationships. It is cataclysmically gorgeous. (Favorite Lines: “The cosmic Zora emerges. I belong to no race nor time. I am the eternal feminine with its string of beads.”)

    Author Zora Neale Hurston

  5. Their Eyes Were Watching God (Novel) by Zora Neale Hurston: If I had read this more recently, I’d make a full post about it—as of now, I can’t do it justice, but it certainly belongs on the list. The novel tells the story of Janie Crawford and her three marriages, each of which inspire a journey of self-discovery. Janie’s journey is hard, and Hurston’s prose is beautiful. The novel is usually considered a result of the Harlem Renaissance, rather than a part of it, but it’s worth mentioning nonetheless. (Favorite Lines: “There is a basin in the mind where words float around on thought and thought on sound and sight. Then there is a depth of thought untouched by words, and deeper still a gulf of formless feelings untouched by thought.”)

For my sources, I used The Norton Anthology of American Literature (ed. Reidhead), The Portable Harlem Renaissance Reader (ed. Lewis), and a copy of Hurston’s Their Eyes Were Watching God.

Let me know if there’s something else I should include . . . I’m always looking for recommendations!

Until next time,

Prof. Jeffrey

“‘Pride,’ observed Mary, who piqued herself upon the solidity of her reflections, ‘is a very common failing, I believe. By all that I have ever read, I am convinced that it is very common indeed; that human nature is particularly prone to it, and that there are very few of us who do not cherish a feeling of self-complacency on the score of some quality or other, real or imaginary. Vanity and pride are different things, though the words are often used synonymously. A person may be proud without being vain. Pride relates more to our opinion of ourselves, vanity to what we would have others think of us.'”

—from Pride and Prejudice by Jane Austen

“It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a good fortune, must be in want of a wife.

However little known the feelings or views of such a man may be on his first entering a neighbourhood, this truth is so well fixed in the minds of the surrounding families, that he is considered the rightful property of some one or other of their daughters.”

—from Pride and Prejudice by Jane Austen

The Quiet American

Welcome back, class.

I’ve reached maximum blog power here—Graham Greene’s The Quiet American is one of the handful of books on the 50-books list that I had not only never read, but had never heard of before. This is literature obscure enough to have never even appeared before a blogger professor like myself, with all of my years of expertise.

Greene’s protagonist, Thomas Fowler, is a British reporter stationed in Vietnam who swears not to get involved in the conflict; he’s only there to report. His friend, the “quiet American” Alden Pyle, has been murdered, and Fowler begins flashing back through their friendship. Their first meeting, their awkward love triangle with a woman named Phuong, their ideological differences . . . all popping up like a panorama of Pyle’s life against the backdrop of the Vietnam conflict.

I wouldn’t say I enjoyed it. It was too political, too subtextual, too circuitous. Happens to the best of us—I appreciated all the novel did, but simply didn’t like reading it. I’ll still dole out one heck of a lecture.


I think the primary reason it made the list is also the most infamous reason—Greene’s 1950s novel predicted the outcome of American influence in Vietnam in the 60s and 70s. This is clearest in Greene’s portrayal of Alden Pyle: Pyle is young, morally motivated, and so inspired to help that he can’t see who he hurts (ladies and gentlemen, a summary of American politics). The novel heavily criticizes American intrusion in world affairs, however good the intentions may seem.

In fact, each of Greene’s main characters represent their countries. Fowler’s refusal to “take sides,” and his failure to do so, is a representation of British transition away from colonialism. Phuong’s representation of her country is laced with racism, as a silent and objectified victim; but her name, which means phoenix, implies an inner quality of resurrection against others imposing their will, much like Vietnam itself throughout the conflict.

The political predictions are not magic—they are a reaction to the World Wars. Fowler and Pyle’s father are called “isolationists,” referring to the United States’ hesitance to enter into any world conflicts. But after America’s efforts heavily influenced world events in the country’s favor, that belief began to die out. Intrusion into countries like Vietnam were ideological wars (which is why Fowler is disgusted with “mental concepts”). Greene was playing out what would keep happening if America made decisions on behalf of the rest of the world . . . and he was very right.

Politics, however, are not the way to my heart. My love is reserved for character arcs and themes.


We spend the entire story inside Fowler’s head. We get his long-standing death wish, his inability to believe in God (or anything that isn’t physical fact), his wayward morals on sex and marriage, and his confusing relationships with Pyle and Phuong. Only a few things tip off his bias, but the major one is his racism—every time he refers to the Vietnamese with the word “they,” superiority fills the air. His subtle comparison between Phuong and Pyle’s dog says more than enough.

But there is something to be said about Fowler’s bottled-up racism—he rarely, if ever, acts on it—in contrast with Pyle’s active infringement on Phuong’s life and the lives of the Vietnamese people. It’s disguised as kindness, but Pyle does more harm than good. Fowler, who holds back the harm he can cause, can’t stand Pyle’s destructiveness. Pyle’s death is caused by his own tendency for chaos and Fowler breaking his rule by taking a side.

That’s the real character arc, and the real reason to read the story: Fowler’s attempts, and his failure, to stay disengaged. He doesn’t like causing pain, and maybe by staying out of all conflicts no pain will be caused. But Pyle is the perfect catalyst for getting Fowler involved, precisely because of how much pain Pyle causes. Fowler makes a devastating choice, leading to Pyle’s death, and Fowler falls back into the story he’s worked so hard not to be a part of.


Like I said, I didn’t like reading it. But I can appreciate it. Now that, students—sincerely and unironically—is the KEY to passing English. Write that down in your notes.

Next up, I’m reading Jane Austen’s Pride and Prejudice. I’m a tad excited; this is one of those books that I wouldn’t ever read for fun, but I know I’ll enjoy it. It comes highly recommended by very cool people.

Until then,

Prof. Jeffrey

“I remembered how Pyle, sitting on the floor, waiting for the Viets, had said, ‘She seems fresh, like a flower,’ and I had flippantly replied, ‘Poor flower.’ She would never see New England now or learn the secrets of Canasta. Perhaps she would never know security; what right had I to value her less than the dead bodies in the square? Suffering is not increased by numbers; one body can contain all the suffering the world can feel. I had judged like a journalist, in terms of quantity, and I had betrayed my own principles; I had become as engagé as Pyle, and it seemed to me that no decision would ever be simple again.”

—from The Quiet American by Graham Greene

“‘It wouldn’t be fair to her, Thomas,’ he said quite seriously. I never knew a man who had better motives for all the trouble he caused. He added, “I don’t think you quite understand Phuong.’

And, waking that morning months later with Phuong beside me, I thought, And did you understand her either? Could you have anticipated this situation? Phuong so happily asleep beside me and you dead? Time has its revenges, but revenges seem so often sour. Wouldn’t we all do better not trying to understand, accepting the fact that no human being will ever understand another, not a wife a husband, a lover a mistress, nor a parent a child? Perhaps that’s why men have invented God—a being capable of understanding.”

—from The Quiet American by Graham Greene

Missing From the List: As I Lay Dying

Good morning, class,

Whenever I think of American authors from the early 20th Century, three come to mind: F. Scott Fitzgerald, Ernest Hemingway, and William Faulkner (there are more, but it takes a few more seconds for them to kick in—I wasn’t there, you see). I have my preferences among the three of them, but in my mind, the three are equals.

Well, the constructors of the 50-books list did not consult me before choosing books. Fitzgerald’s widely-known The Great Gatsby and Hemingway’s lesser-known Men Without Women feature prominently on the list, but Faulkner doesn’t appear at all. Today, I will be remedying that oversight.


Yoknapatawpha County, Faulkner’s fictional Southern landscape

As I Lay Dying is the kind of novel that needs to be studied with a guide waiting nearby. It’s also the kind of novel that needs to be read at least twice to be fully appreciated. (Maybe there is a good reason it didn’t make the list.) Even so, it’s one of the most groundbreaking novels I’ve ever read.

The story is about the Bundren family honoring their deceased mother’s wishes: to be buried in a distant town. Being a poor Southern family in the 1920s, accomplishing the task is difficult. The journey takes many days, and the family survives many perilous events—a dangerous river crossing, a barn burning, violence between each other—until it becomes less and less meaningful to bury the body at all. By the end, secrets are revealed, siblings betray each other, and any semblance of happiness seems more distant than ever.

But the way it’s told is the novel’s genius: each chapter specifies a different character as the narrator, and they each tell the story in a different way. Darl, the second oldest sibling, has the most chapters and seems to be the best storyteller, with his own biases. Cash, the oldest, has a practical and structured mind, and tells his chapters plainly—one chapter of his is a list explaining how he made his mother’s coffin. Vardaman, the youngest, uses short, choppy sentences and leaves out key things he can’t understand. The rest of the family and several other characters get their own chapters, too, throwing out any stability we can have in the facts.

Even Addie, the mother, gets her own chapter—after her death. She reveals which of her children is not her husband’s, and expresses her struggles with marriage and motherhood. It’s her ideas about language that tell us WHY the novel is so complicated: “That was when I learned that words are no good; that words don’t ever fit even what they are trying to say at…He had a word, too. Love, he called it. But I had been used to words for a long time. I knew that that word was like the others: just a shape to fill a lack” (Faulkner).


William Faulkner, author

For me, this novel defines the unreliable narrator. Everyone is looking at the same events and recounting a different story. Addie’s words are the least reliable of all—she’s either out of the order of events, coming back from the past to tell her story, or she’s aware of the struggles of life only from within her own rotting body, closed off from life by the coffin her son built. Even then, she is the key to understanding the problem in their family: they can’t communicate. They are all trapped in their silent thoughts and failing words.

Many of the novels I’ve read from the 50-books list have similarly unreliable narrators—The Canterbury TalesThe Color Purple, and The Catcher in the Rye, to name a few. It’s one of the best concepts in literature, to know that the person telling you the story can’t be trusted. It tips the hierarchy…if even the person telling the story can’t be trusted, what can we rely on? If there’s no stability in the story, it begs questions about every detail. Those questions get closer to the truth than statements ever do.

As I Lay Dying does this really well. Maybe too well…and that’s why it didn’t make the list.


As usual, tell me what you think—what novels should be added to the list? What book should every person read before they die? Come, broaden our horizons. What else is class for?

Until next time,

Prof. Jeffrey

“Why should I want to die when Phuong slept beside me every night? But I knew the answer to that question. From childhood I had never believed in permanence, and yet I had longed for it. Always I was afraid of losing happiness. This month, next year, in three years. Death was the only absolute value in my world. Lose life and one would lose nothing again forever. I envied those who could believe in a God, and I distrusted them. I felt they were keeping their courage up with a fable of the changeless and the permanent. Death was far more certain than God, and with death there would be no longer the daily possibility of love’s dying. The nightmare of a future of boredom and indifference would lift. I could never have been a pacifist. To kill a man was surely to grant him an immeasurable benefit. Oh, yes, people always everywhere loved their enemies. It was their friends they preserved for pain and vacuity.”

—from The Quiet American by Graham Greene

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