As I noted a few days before beginning this text (in the context of the flawed idea of “open” vs. “closed” questions ([1])):
For instance, my first thought when once being asked for my favorite book was either the “Narnia” books (collectively) or “The Magician’s Nephew” (specifically). (After which competing book after competing book occurred to me, and I saw the question as impossible to answer even to some approximation.) Now, imagine if I had just blurted out “Narnia!”.
Some might approve of the answer, others might disapprove, others yet might consider me an idiot—and the clear majority would see these as “children’s books”.
At a minimum, I would have needed some type of disclaimer or explanation to elaborate that the “Narnia” books are not just excellent children’s literature and a fond memory from my own childhood (which might be enough for some), but that they have levels and layers that do make (at least portions of them) a worthwhile read even to an intelligent and educated adult, and especially one who has read some of Lewis’s more adult works and can see them in a bigger picture of his thoughts and worldview. Every read has, so far, made me see something new and understand something that I did not see respectively understand during the previous reading—they are much deeper than even much of the ostensibly adult literature that I have encountered, let alone, say, the “Harry Potter” books.
Coincidentally, this was around the time that I began to go through my own (currently kept private) works of fiction, with an eye at taking up work again, and to re-read one old favorite, “Double Star”. Both motivated me to actually write about some of the many current or past candidates for favorite book (should I be forced at gun point to pick one) in order to better illustrate the complications. (Or was there some unconscious connection between these readings and my use of “favorite book” as an example in [1]?)
A few recurring issues, which I will not always mention explicitly:
Even picking the favorite book by any one author can be tricky. (And any such choice would, of course, be limited to those books that I have actually read.)
Consider e.g. “The Magician’s Nephew” vs. “The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe”: I would view the former as the objectively better and more accomplished work, but the latter might have had a greater effect on me, is a work that I have encountered more often in non-book form, and, through the late 1970s animated movie, was my first contact with “Narnia”. (Others will likely have similar experiences. While the former is the first in the in-universe chronology, the latter was written and published as the first book in the real world, a handful of years earlier.)
The choice between a book and a book series can be tricky, as can comparisons between stand-alone books and a series of books.
If I were to go in the direction of “Narnia”, for instance, should I prefer the “Narnia” books as a whole or pick one individual book? If I were to contrast “Narnia” with “The Hobbit”, is a comparison series vs. book fair or should I compare an individual “Narnia” book with “The Hobbit”? For that matter, should I view “The Hobbit” as a stand-alone work or as a part of the greater “Lord of Rings”?
Such questions are complicated by what we mean by “book”. For instance, I have a single book (in the sense of physical volume) that contains all seven “Narnia” books, while I read them in individual books/volumes as a kid (and the original publication, in different years, was necessarily separate). For instance, to my recollection, “Lord of the Rings” was originally intended to be published in a single volume (sans the already published “The Hobbit”), but was divided into three to (likely) keep the page count of the individual volumes down—but, in a next step, each volume is divided into two logical parts, each referred to as a “book”. Then we have the Bible and quite a few older works, e.g. the Aeneid, that are internally divided into books. These might have been viewed as a series of separate works (likely for the Bible, less so for the Aeneid) in past times but are now viewed as more-or-less a unity. (The Bible comes with complications like what individual books are considered canonical, deuterocanonical, and/or apocryphal and which of these are to be included; and the division into two testaments, which often go into separate volumes and one of which is both irrelevant and heretical to the Jews.)
Then we have issues like serialized novels, which were very common in the 19th century.
Going from “What is your favorite book?” to “What is your favorite written work?” would ease the problem a little, but not enough, and it would open the door for other complications, like whether an individual poem should be considered. Likewise, I would consider “Romeo and Juliet” one of my favorite works—but would not see it as a book, at all. Going from “favorite book” to “favorite novel” might reduce some of the above problems, but would also rule out some too short works of fiction and works of fiction that are otherwise not technically novels, even when they otherwise would have so much in common with a novel that their inclusion would almost certainly match the actual intent of the asker. (It would also, of course, rule out all works of non-fiction, which might or might not be compatible with the intents of the asker.)
My liking is often influenced by an early exposure and might have looked differently without that early exposure. In some cases, an aspect of “sentimental value” can play in, even to the point of some tie to a specific physical volume.
My readings of fiction are strongly tilted towards what has some entertainment value, as opposed to the “literary”, and often involve sci-fi and fantasy (the more so, the further back we go). The choices of candidates for discussion is reasonably representative of the overall in this regard.
(Also see an excursion on my own works.)
Note that the below might contain spoilers.
“Narnia”, etc.:
(See above.)
“Double Star” by Robert A. Heinlein:
While not the most thought-worthy of Heinlein’s books, it was highly entertaining during my first reading in my youth, it was highly entertaining now (age 49), it has always been highly entertaining in between. (With the time span involved, as with many or all other books here, I have no count, but I read it at least thrice while living in Sweden and have probably read it twice as an adult in Germany. I am also uncertain when my first reading was, but 12 is a decent guess.)
The developments, even sci-fi aside, are not always realistic, but always interesting, and through a gradual shift of the situation even the unrealistic parts have a semblance of realism for those who do not look too closely—or who are very young. A particular point is that most of the book could easily have been written to not use any sci-fi elements at all, and the remainder would have required very little in terms of compromise.
Generally, a problem with some sci-fi readers and, especially, critics is that they fail to look beneath the surface. Good sci-fi often contains more substance, depth, whatnot, than is found in random other literature—and, in my experiences so far, almost all women-oriented literature. Likewise, the chance of finding something of substance in boy-oriented literature seems to be much higher than for girl-oriented literature. (I have, over the years, repeatedly changed my mind on whether this is mainly a matter of the target group or mainly a matter of the authors, which split somewhat, but very imperfectly, based on sex into writing in different genres and for different target groups.)
Then again, spaceships and whatnots are just cool.
“All You Zombies”, one of Heinlein’s short-stories, is a particularly good example of how the sci-fi reader or (stereotypically) boy’s/men’s literature reader can be exposed to so much more than the readers of “Nancy Drew” and “Cosmo”. Here, maybe six decades before the gender-mania broke loose, we have a story about a time traveler, who begins life as a girl in an orphanage, grows into a woman, is impregnated by a man, is forced to undergo a sex-change operation, is recruited by a time traveler to join a time traveling agency, and goes back in time to be the impregnator. It might come as little surprise that both the recruiter and the resulting daughter, who was sent back in time to an orphanage, were also the same person. We then have someone who has not just gone through a sex change, but is both his own father and his own mother ... And the “New Left” honestly expects someone who was exposed to such works decades ago to be impressed by the idea of “a man in a woman’s body” or “a woman in a man’s body”.
A point, however, where Heinlein is more realistic than the “New Left” is that said man/woman was not just a random person undergoing surgery, hormone therapy, or whatnot, but someone who actually, originally, had a male reproductive system in addition to the female, just out of sight and unbeknownst to the world.
A particular point is that the book works very well despite using comparatively little violence: most of the events relate to matters of acting, politics, interpersonal and inter-species relationships, and whatnot. Violence can add to a book, but it can also subtract, violence for the sake of violence often works poorly, and, contrary to stereotype, much of the best sci-fi is not very violent.
Above all, however, we have a case of the protagonist being in a very interesting situation. (See an excursion to a text on TV series for more on interesting situations.)
A potential weakness from an adult (and/or re-reader’s) perspective is the culture clash with the Martians, which (a) is not explored very deeply, (b) has a lesser effect on me today than on the first reading, be it because I have seen so much else or because there is no element of surprise left. Notably, I was very affected by the story of Kkkahgral on that first reading, and spent considerable time trying to understand his actions and the mentality behind them; today, my reaction was more of recognition (“Ah! Yes, that guy!”) than of puzzlement or whatnot. (Of course, Kkkahgral is yet another example of the type of early exposure to different ideas, viewpoints, mentalities, whatnot that many boys have at an early age, but of which the “New Left”, Feminists, whatnot, consider them utterly ignorant even as adult men—thereby doing more to show the, often extremely narrow, limits of their own intellectual horizons than the alleged limits of their opponents.)
“Hornblower”:
Again, I cannot pick a favorite from the series, especially as following Hornblower’s career from one end to the other is part of the charm. The books are exciting, intelligent, and come from a niche with comparatively little competition, which might give them an edge. (Also see a lengthier Wordpress discussion, as well as a contrast with the inferior “Aubrey–Maturin”.)
Generally, I found various stories involving sea-faring, warfare on sea, pirates, and whatnot fascinating as a child. “Treasure Island” might have been a candidate back then, but an adult re-reading left me less impressed.
However, “Treasure Island” can serve as a good illustration of how differently the child and the adult can experience a book, even aside from the overall impression: There were several scenes that I misconstrued to some degree as a child, including a complete misunderstanding of the “black spot” (“black mark”, whatnot) given to Billy Bones. Back then, I assumed some type of poison, curse, or similar, which would automatically bring death; today, it is obviously just a message, while the problem lies in the implication of the message.
“The Dark is Rising” by Susan Cooper:
Here I mainly point to a Wordpress discussion.
However, a further re-reading of the book, around Christmas 2022 (?), improved my impression further. The overall structure and the build-up of tension and anticipation are very well made for a children’s book, and the effect of the tension/anticipation was very great during my first read. I suspect that the skilfulness did not register with me during the previous re-read for the simple reason that I knew too well what was coming.
Various works by Terry Pratchett:
Terry Pratchett is a bit unusual among the examples in that I only encountered him around 20. Even so, he had a very great effect on me, I have read some individual works more than half-a-dozen times, and more than one might have had a chance to be my favorite book, had I been asked at the right time. This mostly based on how funny I found them, but also often through an interesting angle, some borderline philosophical content, or similar. (Also see an excursion on formerly favorite authors below.)
To mention just three candidates:
“Wyrd Sisters”: Amazingly funny, with many Shakespeare references.
“Small Gods”: A very thought-worthy book for those with an interest in religion, and (at least in the “Discworld” series) arguably his most clever work.
“Night Watch”: I was deeply fascinated by the idea of a man going back in time to relive a “formative” part of his life from a more adult perspective (incidentally, as his own mentor).
How to view “Night Watch” from a time-travel perspective is a tricky question. At a minimum, it is very different in style and principles from most of the sci-fi time travel.
The recurring reader, maybe even the reader of this one page, might have a suspicion that re-visiting the past is something that I enjoy even in the real world, to the degree that it is possible. (In part, for reasons of nostalgia; in part, exactly to view something “then” through “now” eyes.)
As noted, this list is highly incomplete (as is the below list for non-fiction), because I try to bring a general idea over—not make a complete catalogue. To comment, however, on three potentially surprising non-mentions:
Firstly, “Lord of the Rings” (with or without “The Hobbit” and other “Middle-Earth” literature): In part, this almost goes without saying; in part, I suspect that any attempt to discuss it in a non-trivial manner would double the size of this page.
Secondly, various “James Bond” books: These are my go-to example in certain discussions, e.g. to juxtapose entertainment literature with more serious literature, or to give an example of men’s/boy’s literature that is not usually very deep (in contrast to an above side-note). A recurring reader might well have seen such mentions, including in [1]. However, the relative frequency of mention does not reflect how positive my opinion is. Yes, I have read them and do not in the slightest regret the reading; no, they are not even close to the top of my list. (For the record, however, I consider “From Russia with Love” the best of both the books and the movies.)
Thirdly, Stephen King: The recurring reader might have noticed a great interest in his works, including that several texts from my Wordpress years deal with King. Off the top of my head, none of his books, taken individually, were very strong candidates for favorite even at the height of my interest. (“The Talisman” might have been closest to young me.) He does find some mention in a below excursion on formerly favorite authors, however.
While I, for most of my life, have read more non-fiction that fiction, it is harder for a non-fiction work to reach the same “status” (for want of a better word). A few varied candidate books, book families, and authors, however.
Encyclopedias and other “fact collections”:
Two works that stand out particularly in my memory are the 1987 (?) “Guinness Book of Records”, in the Swedish edition, and a massive encyclopedia owned by my paternal grandmother (after so many years, I cannot say for certain what encyclopedia this was, but it had between one and two dozen volumes). I spent a great many hours with both; the latter almost certainly would have been the printed work that I spent most time with, had it not been through the limited access—grandmother lived far away. As is, Guinness might win out, but with competition from several works of a somewhat similar nature, including a one-volume children’s encyclopedia.
Unsurprisingly, adult me has spent countless hours on Wikipedia, but neither is Wikipedia a book, nor can I say that I approve of the current Wikipedia, with its ever-present Leftist or far Leftist angles and distortions, which (at least for some topics) turns it borderline anti-encyclopedic.
As an adult, I bought the 2001 Guinness in the German edition. It was major disappointment, objectively inferior to the 1987 version, even after adjusting for my own greater age. The 1987 version had been grey and drab, with few pictures (and, likely, all in black-and-white); the 2001 shiny and colorful, chock-full with images. But: the 1987 version had been focused on informing; the 2001 seemed to only want to entertain the broad masses.
To boot, the degeneration in records had already taken a grave toll, with a switch from actual accomplishments to cheap gimmicks and nonsense records geared at nothing but gaining participation, as with those in the “The village of X baked the worlds largest pizza!” family.
Works by Dawkins:
At some point in my early or mid teens, I read several of his works (but cannot, now, say exactly which, let alone which one among these might have been my “favorite”), and they had a great effect on my intellectual development, as I was exposed to someone who actually thought and wrote about thinking for the first time. They showed me a new-to-me approach to science and the application of reason.
The fact that they dealt mostly with Evolution and related topics was secondary, even if they helped to give me a much deeper understanding (even back then) than most adults have and did leave an ongoing interest in these matters. The main point was an approach of thought and reason.
The contrast with “the other” Evolutionary writer of the time, Gould, was very interesting and very depressing: after I had read all that the local library could offer on Dawkins, I gave Gould a shot, believing that he and all others from the same field would be like Dawkins, and strongly considering this field for my own future. I found little or no thought—but an abundance of directed-at-the-broad-masses anecdotes about pandas and flamingos.
This curbed my interest in the field and showed me how the approach to a field can be more important than the field, it self. (Ditto, if we replace “field” with e.g. “problem”.) It also gave me a very negative impression of Gould, long before I became aware of his political foolishness and his highly misleading (likely, outright fraudulent) “The Mismeasure of Man”.
I had earlier encountered some other authors who might have dabbled with or attempted to write about thinking, etc., including Carl Sagan, but no-one that impressed me for that reason. Sagan, when I tried to revisit him as an adult, gave me the impression of being an outright weak thinker, but does deserve some similar credit for giving me an early push towards science and revealing something of how much was out there (especially, through his “Cosmos” TV-series).
“Gödel, Escher, Bach” by Douglas Hofstadter:
During a first reading, likely at 16 or 17, I was highly impressed, seeing parallels with Dawkins in terms of a thinking approach, and enjoying the many multilayered and thought-worthy stories/fables/whatnot that accompanied the main text.
If asked for my favorite book immediately after that first reading, “Gödel, Escher, Bach” might well have been my answer.
Unfortunately, it did not hold up well over time. Much of the material grew more superficial in my mind over several repeat readings, the stories seemed almost silly, and my later exposure to matters like logic and computer science made me realize that most of the factual matter covered was comparatively basic, more-or-less the 101 level. In the end, in my more adult estimate, Hofstadter does not seem like a great thinker but a mere “popularizer”. While there is nothing wrong with being a popularizer, the true credit for the material does belong elsewhere. Indeed, even the best story, and the one which introduced at least two of the characters that Hofstadter used for his own stories, had been borrowed from Lewis Caroll.
Could a similar point apply to Dawkins? Possibly, and some later re-readings do point to an early over-attribution to Dawkins (by me, not Dawkins!) of the results and thoughts discussed in the books. Nevertheless, I would see Dawkins as the sharper thinker and greater contributor, and as someone who actually has a deeper or much deeper understanding of the matters under respective discussion than Hofstadter (but the difference in matter makes the comparison potentially tricky). Certainly, I would recommend Dawkins to someone who wants to understand Evolution, be it as a layman or as a student looking to complement his academic readings, while I might consider Hofstadter almost pointless for the student—and suspect that the layman would be better off with a book more focused on what parts interest him.
“Svenska Folkets Underbara Öden” by Carl Grimmberg:
This is a multivolume Swedish history, of which I indirectly inherited four volumes from my paternal grandfather. (There are at least nine volumes in all, but the rest, if my grandfather ever owned them, have been lost on the way to me and through the many years involved. Grabbing one volume, I see a year of printing of 1922, while my year of writing is 2024, and the volumes might have ended up with me the late 1980s.)
While they do suffer from the “Yay us!” take so common in older history books and might be a little simplistic in being layman-oriented, they are extremely well written, engaging, and interesting—the type of work that can be read at almost any age and by almost anyone.
That this is one of the very few connections that I have to said grandfather, who died shortly before my second birthday, makes the volumes the more valuable in an “extra-textual” manner.
The title translates to “The Wonderful [öden] of the Swedish People”, where I am uncertain what a good translation of “öden” would be. Revisiting this page, I tend towards “Fortunes”, a word that did not originally occur to me. The original version suggested “Adventures” as a very approximate translation, while mentioning “Destinies”/“Fates”/“Wyrds” as more literal options, and noting the non-literal possibility of “Deeds”, in the sense of e.g. “Gesta Danorum”.
“Juniorernas Önskebok 1965”:
This is a 1965 work of an unusual nature, which originally belonged to my father (who turned 14 in that year). Over more than 170 roughly-A4 pages, the “junior” is met with various youth-oriented texts, puzzles, experiments to perform, whatnot.
The bulk is made up of several dozen (wholly or mostly, non-fiction) texts of varying lengths, often with an adventure orientation. The first gives a popular science account of the creation of the Earth (according to the then state of knowledge); later texts include discussions of explorers Nansen and Cook, an autobiographic account by Mark Twain from his Mississippi years, an account by a pilot parachuting through a thunderstorm, a text on Elsa, the lion, and an account of a plane performing an emergency landing in/on the Atlantic ocean. A personal favorite in my youth was the autobiographic writings of a sword swallower.
While some few of the texts might be a little girly-er, the brunt is very boy-centric, and the low proportions of such materials in e.g. school could go a long way to explain why boys seem to be reluctant readers—with materials like these, the situation might be very different.
The texts have little or no connection to Sweden, but seem to be Swedish translations of “Reader’s Digest” material, mostly from the U.S. The respective name of the original texts do not seem to be present, but I can provide authors and Swedish titles upon request. (Elsa and Mark Twain should not require further information, however.)
For the overall book, the title amounts to “The Juniors’ wishbook 1965”, where “wishbook” is an ad-hoc translation of the non-standard “Önskebok”. The true implication is unclear even in Swedish, but the idea is likely that it a book that the “juniors” had wished for and/or contained materials that they had wished for. The use of “Juniorxxx” is also odd in context, but would contextually likely imply a “young adult” or specifically a male “young adult”. The word, with reservations for drift in usage and similar to English use, is normally used to imply e.g. a junior athlete, a junior member of an organization, or similar, or as a semi-joking reference to a son. Similar books for some other years appear to exist, but I have never come across one.
Re-visiting my own works of fiction, I cannot deny that they are also candidates for “my favorite book”, even the liking created through the effort to write them aside. This to the point that I have occasional moments of “That’s brilliant! Did I really write that?”. This, however, should be seen with a few caveats:
The impression is far from uniform. The “brilliant” parts are mixed with others that need polishing or, even, a re-write to make me truly satisfied.
The books were to a very large part written to fit my own tastes, be it unconsciously or in a deliberate effort to match what I had enjoyed in works by others. As with anything “tailor made”, the fit with someone else could be considerably worse.
While re-reading, I can draw upon knowledge that the average other reader would not necessarily have, e.g. to recognize a pun here or a reference to some other work there. Some might be understood, but others might not be, and no-one else is likely to get them all. (In fact, as time passes, it might well be that even I do not get them all.)
I have a much deeper knowledge of and tie to the main characters than another reader realistically could have, which means that I could view a certain scene in a different manner. Likewise, I know the characters in a much bigger picture and can e.g. say how a certain scene fits in a that bigger picture, not all of which will necessarily ever be put down in words. Likewise, the subtext of a certain statement/act/whatnot might be crystal clear to me but not to the typical reader. Etc.
Parts have a somewhat private nature that will naturally be lost to others, e.g. because a reference is made to some event in my own life or because a certain character is a partial homage to someone from my past.
In a next step, the question arises how other authors see their works relative how their readers see the works. Fairly early during my writings, I began to suspect that no-one can truly understand, judge, and appreciate the work of someone else in the right manner—and this suspicion has grown stronger over time. (Notwithstanding that some works are still better than others by any reasonable standard. If in doubt, the same author could pour his heart into a serious work and write another as a throw-away pot boiler.) This does not prevent someone from having a favorite book, but it does mean that the claim “X is my favorite book!” tells us little about the actual merit of a book.
As should be indirectly clear from the above, I would not point to a favorite author either. (Except, maybe, per the previous excursion...)
However, if I add a sharp limitation to authors were I had an expectation of new material arriving (unlike with, say, the long dead C. S. Lewis), I could point to three formerly favorite authors. In reverse chronological order:
From my early twenties to my mid or late thirties, Terry Pratchett. He fell out of favor through a mixture of over-saturation (an unfair reason: I had read virtually all his books repeatedly and was eventually fed up); a dropping quality and/or a change of style in his work over the years (maybe, as a consequence of his Alzheimer’s; maybe, because he too was fed up?); and a gradual change in my own taste. By the time of his death, I might still have gone with Pratchett, if given the question, by default or in light of earlier enjoyment, but I had read little by him for a few years leading up to said death and what I had read had not been read with the erstwhile enthusiasm: new or old, his works and I just did not click like we used to.
From my late pre-teens or very early teens to my early twenties, Stephen King. To some part, I grew out his type of writing; to some part, Pratchett shoved him aside. If in doubt, comedy is so much more enjoyable than horror stories to a mind tired after a hard day of work or study. (But his name pops up in my mind almost automatically when I think of writing or fiction, even today, and some of my early King readings are among my most memorable.)
For, maybe, two years preceding Stephen King, Alistair MacLean. By now, I remember very little of his books, beyond that I enjoyed them, but King gradually came to dominate, in part because I liked his books even better, in part because there was so much more King-material to read. This might to some part have been affected by MacLean’s comparatively early death, when I was twelve, but I was not aware of his death at the time, and I certainly had begun to read King before that. (My only even semi-recent exposure is a watching of the based-on-his-book film “Ice Station Zebra” last year. While I enjoyed it, I do not know how the film compares to the book.)
In all cases, the transition from the one to the other was gradual (and the time estimates are only estimates).
Pratchett has, to date, had no successor. Prior to MacLean, I do not think that anyone among the living/active stood out sufficiently beyond the others. Arthur C. Clarke might, maybe, have made the cut. (“Dolphin Island” was an early favorite; and I loved sci-fi, in general) Had I had access to more than the Prydain books, Lloyd Alexander might have been it, but I did not. (I might go as far as to suspect that I unthinkingly grouped Alexander with the likes of Lewis as one of the great deads—the more the shame, as he lived and wrote until 2007.)
As occurs to me during writing, there might be a need to differentiate between “for the broad masses” and e.g. “layman accessible” for non-fiction. (Likewise, a differentiation between “for the broad masses” and e.g. “readable even by the young” might make sense for fiction.) Looking at some of the above, I might see Gould as “for the broad masses” and Dawkins as “layman accessible” (or “accessible for the sufficiently intelligent layman”). Similarly, the 1987 Guinness was obviously not a work intended for scholars, but it did have a very different attitude from the 2001 Guinness. A contrast between the actual “[whatnot] for Dummies” and the hypothetical “[whatnot] for the Intelligent Beginner” might also illustrate the point.
Potential differences include whether the focus is more on entertaining or more on informing, how much dumbing down takes place (and how open the author might be about simplifications), whether contents are limited to facts or whether thought and understanding is given a due place, etc.
I have made at least one edit to reflect this, for “Svenska Folkets Underbara Öden”. (I do not rule out that other edits would be beneficial.) As a consequence, a side-note was removed. However, said side-note could help in explaining my take on the topic of this excursion, and I quote it here:
With fields like history, a for-the-masses-angle can still be a problem, if it involves too much over-simplification and whatnot; however, the potential damage is less than in “harder” sciences, where the over-simplification can give a very wrong impression in a different manner, and the difference in level between a “pop-sci” and “sci-sci” take on e.g. physics is much larger than the corresponding difference for history.
With history, the larger stumbling block is something else, namely angles and distortions of the matter (which can occur equally in a more academic work). Even here, it is easier for the cautious reader to apply a grain of salt than with e.g. physics.
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