Books that have the greatest impact on me do so mostly because of how they are written. How some authors play with words makes me feel more than their stories do. I can say these books or those books are my favorites, but truer to my answer to this prompt is the authors, themselves.
James Joyce made the greatest impact. Ulysses is so brilliantly written, I feel lightheaded and a bit euphoric when I read it. Joyce was an eccentric when it came to writing. He refused to use quotation marks because he didn’t want his words to be closed in by upside-down commas. For that alone, I love him. He liberates me to break the rules. In Ulysses, his timing is brilliant, his wit is genius, and the way he crafts ideas is untouchable. I read the book for how it reads; how the story plays out is secondary. The impact? He made me love literature more than any other writer could.
Kurt Vonnegut, specifically his book Mother Night, digs deep inside me. Vonnegut is crafty and smart. He is the guy you want to drink a beer with at a bar and talk with until dawn. How he shoves into the light the absurdities of the human race is beautiful. Political correctness is not a blip on his radar, which allows him to highlight the ugly truths of the human condition. Why Mother Night in particular? Because of how the message cuts me. The antagonist cares nothing for anyone but his true love and his craft (which comes in first is hard to say), to the point that he accepts the honor of doing a patriotic service in secret to satisfy his lust for admiration by the enemy. In the end, he wins his freedom in his trial for committing crimes against humanity when the secret of working undercover comes to light. He convicts himself for caring only about what he loves, however, and commits the execution he feels he deserves. His last words and the final line in the book, “Auf wiedersehen,” could be for anyone, but are likely spoken to the Nazis he kept company with for his own gain, who he likely feels he will meet again in hell. Or maybe they are to Helga, his love, who disappeared in the war. Regardless, one can’t help but feel sorry for the guy, nor conviction for one’s own selfishness. That conviction hit home for me, and the story could not have been conveyed so brilliantly by any other author. Vonnegut is a cynic and an idealist rolled into one, much like I am. He, however, is the clever one, and I have not seen his equal in that regard. I look upon his voice to guide my own.
Margaret Atwood made an impact on me, not only for the terror The Handmaid’s Tale violently stirred in me but because of the purpose she gave the book. Atwood paints a picture of bondage and fear that I could not shake. Not even now as I type these words can I think on the book as being simply a good read. Within the tale, she opens the door for her readers to tell their own stories. She encourages her readers to write in the end. I intend to.
Another Writer, Another Blog 