There never was such a man, or behaviour so atrocious as his—a mixture of narrow-mindedness, selfishness, truckling, blustering, and duplicity, with no object but self, his own ease, and the gratification of his own fancies and prejudices, without regard to the advice and opinion of the wisest and best informed men or to the interests and tranquillity of the country.

Also:

Objects which I used to contemplate at an immeasurable distance, and to attain which I thought would be the summit of felicity, I have found worth very little in comparison to the value my imagination used to set upon them.

And:

Three days ago Lord Liverpool was seized with an apoplectic or paralytic attack. The moment it was known every sort of speculation was afloat as to the probable changes this event would make in the Ministry. It was remarked how little anybody appeared to care about the man; whether this indifference reflects most upon the world or upon him, I do not pretend to say.

Very much looking forward to reading the remaining volumes.

The Bell Jar, by Sylvia Plath, published 1963, fiction, 259 pages. Oof. I picked this up because I liked Plath’s poetry and maybe also as a small attempt to try to better understand my father’s suicide. The writing was indeed great, but whew, the second half was kind of brutal for me.

Galileo’s Daughter: A Historical Memoir of Science, Faith, and Love, by Dava Sobel, published 1999, biography, 405 pages. I quite liked this, which is no huge surprise given how much I love reading about the history of science. It’s a biography of Galileo’s adult life, with lots of letters from his oldest daughter (a nun at a nearby convent) interleaved with the narrative, which covers Galileo’s research in astronomy and physics and of course the infamous trial. Reading this book made me realize I don’t spend nearly enough time actively thinking, or at least I don’t feel I do, which likely means instead that I’m not thinking about the things I wish I were. This passage is good:

“I believe that the intention of Holy Writ was to persuade men of the truths necessary for salvation,” Galileo continued his letter to Castelli, “such as neither science nor any other means could render credible, but only the voice of the Holy Spirit. But I do not think it necessary to believe that the same God who gave us our senses, our speech, our intellect, would have put aside the use of these, to teach us instead such things as with their help we could find out for ourselves, particularly in the case of these sciences of which there is not the smallest mention in the Scriptures; and, above all, in astronomy, of which so little notice is taken that the names of none of the planets are mentioned. Surely if the intention of the sacred scribes had been to teach the people astronomy, they would not have passed over the subject so completely.”

Sense and Sensibility, by Jane Austen, published 1811, fiction, 456 pages. Delightful and witty. Loved it. I’d seen some of the film adaptations before but had never read the book till now, and that was entirely my loss. Of Austen’s novels, I have left only Emma and Mansfield Park, and I look forward to completing the set in the not too distant future.

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The Merchant of Prato: Francesco di Marco Datini, 1335–1410, by Iris Origo, published 1957, biography, 526 pages. Enjoyed this deep dive into the life of a medieval Tuscan merchant. Very detailed, thanks to Datini’s voluminous correspondence. Recommended if you’re into 1300s Tuscany, as I am. The preface includes this gem about the author:

The illegibility of her handwriting was also notorious. Her publisher and friend Jock Murray tells of tackling a passage at the bottom of a letter, which had defeated everyone else, and eventually deciphering the words: “Dearest Jock, I can’t read what I have written. Please type it out and send a copy to me.”

And this, from Petrarch, on doctors back then (glad things have changed!):

No one heeded their prescriptions, for I have always besought my friends and bidden my servants that nothing should ever be carried out on my person of what physicians had ordered, but that, if indeed something must be done, it should be just the opposite.

Giving Up Is Unforgivable: A Manual for Keeping a Democracy, by Joyce Vance, published 2025, nonfiction, 168 pages. I’ve occasionally dipped into Vance’s newsletter for legal analysis on the criminal embarrassment that is Trump and his incompetent administration and all their unconstitutional mayhem, and her newsletter is solid. This book is likewise good, though it doesn’t have much legal analysis; it does, however, review Trump’s current attempts to destroy our democracy and turn himself into a vainglorious dictator, and it has recommendations for how to preserve our freedom. It’s about how rule of law and democracy are our best defense against the capricious, arbitrary whims of a tyrant, things we in America once again have firsthand knowledge of (re: Iran, tariffs, etc.). The book also points out (or maybe it’s just something I thought while reading it; I can’t remember) that anyone who is actively trying to make it harder for Americans to vote (cough SAVE Act cough) is fundamentally anti-American and an enemy of democracy.

The Decameron, by Giovanni Boccaccio, published 1353 (translation by John Payne published 1886), fiction, 1,075 pages. What a bawdy, bawdy book. I found it repugnant, though near the end there were a couple very refreshing stories where someone chooses not to be immoral. (Shocking!) While I was in the middle of this, we came to Genesis 39 in our family scripture study and that too was a glorious breath of fresh air. I did enjoy the conclusion, where Boccaccio tries to defend his work against the objections he was sure were coming. All in all, I’m glad I read this for the sake of becoming better versed in medieval lit, but whew, never going to read it again. Also, incessant vice is boring.

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I generally read between four and ten books at a time, though at times it’s gone as low as two and as high as, uh, thirty. (Those were wild days.) For me it’s a balance between finishing books — where fewer at a time helps — and reading across more of my areas of interest in parallel.

Each day I try to read at least 100 pages. My loose goal is at least ten pages per book per day, though I’m not strict about that. I also try to read at least fifty pages per day from the main books I’m reading (usually either book club books or the ones I’m closest to finishing). Even long books like War & Peace melt away fairly quickly at fifty pages per day.

When I get near the end of a book (fewer than 150 pages left), I tend to switch to burndown mode where I focus only on that book and largely ignore the others (reading only a page or two from them per day, if that).

As of today, this is my list of reading tracks, which is how I divvy up my reading across genres. I usually try to read one book per track, but that’s not a hard and fast rule.

• Nonfiction, authors I’ve already read. Working through the bibliographies of authors I like, basically.
• Nonfiction, authors new to me. Which in practice means any nonfiction that isn’t already covered by one of the other nonfiction tracks.
• Old nonfiction. “Old” is defined loosely here but mostly means books one can find on Project Gutenberg.
• Biography/memoir. On these I try to alternate between modern and old (same meaning of “old” as above).
• Diaries and letters. I’ve split these up into their own tracks before and may do so again, but for now I flip between them.
• Classics. I try to switch between more serious classics (the Brontës, Tolstoy, Gaskell, Hardy, that kind of thing) and more “fun” classics — a designation I’m not totally happy with — like Anne of Green Gables, Dracula, The Secret Garden, and Phantom of the Opera.
• Modern lit. I tend to rotate through sf&f, lit fic, and historical fiction, though the genre lines are messy and I don’t worry much about which track a book ends up in since it’s the reading that matters. Sometimes I split sf&f out into its own track, but lately I’ve been less interested in it so I’ve consolidated.

The list is alive and changes frequently. It will no doubt change tomorrow, or even later today. I don’t know what that says about me.

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Destiny of the Republic: A Tale of Madness, Medicine, and the Murder of a President, by Candice Millard, published 2011, history, 368 pages. Loved it! The history — the assassination, the undiagnosed mental illness, the medical malpractice — is tragic and awful, of course, but the book itself is so good. Highly recommended. I also enjoyed the parts about Alexander Graham Bell and now want to read Reluctant Genius. And Garfield’s diary.

Mere Christianity, by C. S. Lewis, published 1952, nonfiction, 239 pages. A reread after twenty years away. Overall, it held up. Lots of good stuff.

Anne of Green Gables, by L. M. Montgomery, published 1908, fiction, 377 pages. I grew up on the Canadian miniseries but had never read the original book till now, which I’m glad I finally did because it’s delightful and wholesome and human and I loved it. And the ending! Poignant. (From what I can remember, by the way, the miniseries — which is on my list of “things to show to my kids as I irrationally try to recreate my childhood for them” — seems to be a fairly faithful adaptation.)

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Supreme Inequality: The Supreme Court’s Fifty-Year Battle for a More Unjust America, by Adam Cohen, published 2020, history, 498 pages. Good book, though frustrating throughout because of the court’s frequent decisions in favor of the rich and powerful instead of normal people, and also because of slimy, underhanded tactics by Nixon and McConnell and others. I shouldn’t have been surprised by any of this, but still it stung. More and more, conservativism seems these days to me to be a blight that rots whate’er it touches and in many ways is fundamentally incompatible with the gospel of Jesus Christ. (Saying this as someone who grew up fairly conservative.)

The White Album, by Joan Didion, published 1979, essays, 223 pages. Still loving Didion’s writing, about any topic. Liked this: a “place belongs forever to whoever claims it hardest, remembers it most obsessively, wrenches it from itself, shapes it, renders it, loves it so radically that he remakes it in his image.”

The Tragedy of Romeo and Juliet, by William Shakespeare, published 1597, play, 96 pages. Rather liked it — lots of great lines. Fun (if “fun” is the right word for a tragedy) (it’s not) to read it after reading Ovid on Pyramus and Thisbe. Also, it hits quite a bit differently now that I have teenagers around the age of Romeo and Juliet.

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War and Peace, by Leo Tolstoy (translated by Louise & Aylmer Maude), published 1869 (translation published 1922), fiction, 2,175 pages. Very long, clearly, but oh so good, and most of the chapters are only a few pages long which helped a lot. I liked the translation, too. Lots of Tolstoy pontificating about history and military theory, with a little bit of math (calculus! actual equations!) thrown in for seasoning. The only part that felt like a slog to me was the second epilogue, but that’s probably because I was excited to cross the finish line.

Journals of Dorothy Wordsworth volume 1, by Dorothy Wordsworth (edited by William Knight), published 1897, diary, 309 pages. Enjoyed this. It takes place in the Lake District and in Scotland and among other things is full of nature descriptions (like “the ivy twisting round the oaks like bristled serpents,” for a very short example), lots of walking around (and even after reading that, you are probably still underestimating just how much walking around there is in this journal), Coleridge not being well, and her brother William writing poetry. I think I enjoyed the Scotland trip the most. This resonated with me as a fellow diarist: “I have neglected to set down the occurrences of this week, so I do not recollect how we disposed of ourselves to-day.” I’ll leave you with this story: “The wife was very generous, gave food and drink to all poor people. She had a passion for feeding animals. She killed a pig with feeding it over much. When it was dead she said, ‘To be sure it’s a great loss, but I thank God it did not die clemmed’ (the Cheshire word for starved).”

Eugene Onegin, by Alexander Pushkin (translated by Henry Spalding), published 1837 (translation published 1881), poetry, 140 pages. I knew nothing about this going in; I’d heard Pushkin’s name but that was it. Found it interesting enough, with some compelling characterization, but I didn’t love it.

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The Pigeon Tunnel: Stories from My Life, by John le Carré, published 2016, nonfiction, 377 pages. Interesting enough, though it probably would have been better if I’d read some of le Carré’s books first, given that it’s mostly stories from later in his life with notes on how some of them served as inspiration for various characters or scenes in his novels.

A Short Autobiography of Countess Sophie Andreyevna Tolstoy, by Sophie Andreyevna Tolstoy (translated by S. S. Koteliansky and Leonard Woolf), published 1922, nonfiction, 105 pages. Enjoyed the parts about Tolstoy writing War and Peace (which I finished reading yesterday!) and Anna Karenina. I didn’t know much about the Tolstoys’ lives beforehand, so color me sad when I got to the end and read (both from Sophie’s side in the main text and from Tolstoy’s side in the footnotes) about their marriage falling apart and all the strife about the will and Tolstoy’s determination to put all of his works into the public domain.

The Ideal Book: Essays and Lectures on the Arts of the Book, by William Morris (edited by William S. Peterson), published 1982, nonfiction, 117 pages. An interesting bit of book history by and about William Morris and Kelmscott Press. I’m far more minimalist than Morris and I don’t hate Bodoni like he does, but I do quite like his editions, and he remains an inspiration to me — particularly the part where he designed his own type. Someday!

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Thin Air: A Ghost Story, by Michelle Paver, published 2016, horror, 161 pages. Read this for book group. It’s creepy and triggered my fear of heights. Not sure how I feel about the ending, though. A little abrupt, perhaps.

The Buffalo Hunter Hunter, by Stephen Graham-Jones, published 2025, horror, 504 pages. Though horror isn’t really my thing, I quite liked this, particularly the title (which is what drew me in in the first place) and the triple layers of nesting and the diary format. Recommended if you like horror.

A Book of One’s Own: People and Their Diaries, by Thomas Mallon, published 1984, nonfiction, 293 pages. As one who loves reading diaries (published diaries, to be clear) and has kept one for the last several decades, I found this compelling and ate it up. Came out of it with a long list of books I now want to read. I also realized it’s been a very long while since I actually spent time reading any diaries (or letter compilations), so I’m working on remedying that.

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I’ve been working on these for about a month, writing them down in my Field Notes notebook, and have had a lot of fun with the form. The typesetting was also fun; I initially set it in Freight Text but then, after designing the cover, switched to Futura to match.

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