Books Read 2026

This is a reread. I believe I had first come upon this in the summer of 2020 and, then and now, read it in one sitting. I like this book. There is this great struggle of one man, who has lived beyond his years and beyond his fortune, to go on with his conquering of nature. He fights not against one Marlin, but against that, for him, devine goddess, that is the Sea. We are so far removed from that mans existence. Both the squalor he lives in and the connectdedness to a specific task. How many would still go and perform this ritual for 85 days without a catch. I'm unsure if this rigidity of spirit or supposed nobility is even there. One could do a charitable almost homeric view into Santiago but then that is not how he sees himself. He cares about the great diMaggio and his hand uncramping and the fish he might bring in. The sea is unconquerable. He loses the fish in the end and the richer more modern men with larger trawlers will get the Marlin and their hands will not bleed and their backs will break less and they will have beds of cotton and not made of a newspaper. But then again. His wounds will heal. And then he will go out again.

I picked this in a bookshop years after the name first entered my mind through my Grandfathers recommendation. It is this mans account of his Opium addiction. His life before the encounter of opium, the joys of a drugged existence, and the ultimate downfall caused by it. It is, I suppose, almost value neutral – for too long does De Quincey linger on his in part hellish life before the encounter of the drug. Too sweet are the dreams described and even the great nightmares at the end feel almost... interesting. He loves it, and one can tell that even now that he has stopped he still does. It is a maddening love he only gave up for if he loved it more he'd join the many dead it has already claimed.

Vice is a dangerous thing. I'm not really sure how I wish to deal with it in my life. How resistant to it am I? Will I, in a moment of weakness that will come one day, fall for it? Will the dread of some possible future feel so great as that I wish to meet it with the numbness with which many already approach the world? I hope not.

For the longest time I have wished to read Durants Story of Civilization. While is too long an undertaking for my urrent habits, this short blip of a hundred page summary however does condense some decent points. It's more read as a book of aphorisms almost; quick arguments follow one after another, and one leaves with a few new thoughts here or there. It rarely goes into great detail about some historical thing or another, one ought to refer to the original books for that. A worthwhile read, especially in one sitting over a weekend.

This is a family memoir and the author shall therefore remain anonymous. I have often thought of the value of having a heritage in the first place. in a sense, this is what my family has done for a few generations now, wandered to a new place, put up roots, attempt to build a life worth living. From Pomeranian castles over the American Steppe through Jungles and deserts... we've gotten around quite a bit. I wonder, yes I certainly hope, that I can contribute to this legacy in some way. There are frontiers that must still be explored. Would I have been on Shackleton's boat? Would I have allied with Sitting Bull... Well, for that case I still woul';d'ce had to dine with bismarck first ohwelllshouI don't know, but I suppose there's still some time in my life to figure that out.

The English translation is called "Storm of Steel", but that already does not convey the title properly. German is a tongue that to me is uniquely suited to this book; the raw descriptivism of it, the unwillingness to pass judgement on the carnage that is witnessed in the day to day. Juenger remains a controversial figure, but I cannot help but have a degree of admiration for the writings of this boy, for that is who he was during the war. Scarcely older than I am now, and with an ability to wring beauty out of dire situations; maybe even conceding that only those allow the beauty to be seen in the first place. To become briefly political; this is probably too widely read among right wing circles who turn it into war goonerism, while Juenger in general is underread in more liberal crowds. He is one of the last centuries greatest aesthetes; Glass Bees and the Marble Cliffs come to mind especially.

A touch difficult to place in context, as almost no one reads this thing by their own will anymore. The story is too well known, all schoolchildren know it, there have been too many movies. I had remained mostly oblivious to it, and thus liked it quite a bit. The novel has a rhythm to it, the entire first two thirds feel not too different from what I'd imagine one of gatsbys parties to be like. One must have been a special type of person to enjoy this totally vapid hedonism. Modernity had not caught up to the world yet; it was purer in a sense. Gatsby reads much as a self insert, but in a charming way. The show of wealth in hope of catching a glimpse of a love. Staring down into a lake for days on end, knowing the lamp on the other side to be hers... worth the read, if for whatever reason you haven't read it yet.

I vastly prefer the first and last novella to the middle one, but that may just be the relative impatience with which I read part of this. There is a tremendously interesting world hidden here; Decidedly worth it to have an idea of an earlier Wolfe before BotNS. The christian allegory is, at least to my untrained eye, rather tuned down here. As always it should be read very alertly; the book is essentially an anthropological examanination. The world of Saint Anne exists and this book is a fragment of it, we can, if attentive enough, understand it.

There are few men whose life need less of an explanation than Napoleon's. He is, without a doubt, the most greatest figure of the 19th century. This is a feat he owes to the ripeness for opportunity present in france at his time, but mostly to his own accomplishments and stewarding. To excellence and tireless victory for decades. All those he meets during his travel are blown away. Beethoven composes for him a Symphony, Hegel sees in him his Weltseele, the most formed of all men. And then... after all this triumph, a fall. It's not the endless victories that stick out to me but the tragedy. How, after that Zenith before the russian campaign, all of Europe in his hand, it all begins to disintegrate. His Friends die on the battlefield his advisors become yesmen or defect, the french people seem to care rather little. And throughout somehow he remains sane? While Paris is almost fallen he's still outmaneuvering a force a multiple of his own in the 1814 campaign, without a drop of blood he recaptures the throne after Elba... It is only after the biggest blunders of his career around Waterloo, a battle he should and could have won that it falters. Then it is over. He goes to some backwater, writes his memoirs, and dies.

in the midst of wind, rain and the thunder of the waves, Bonaparte rendered up to God the mightiest breath of life that ever animated human clay
~ Chateaubriand

We canot help but muse on these figures. In part, like all men, we wish to become them. We will not. Greatness is never alike; perhaps some who read this will become like he was, but they will do so differently. If mimicry were enough it would be too commonplace. Yet we stay here, and we read of the greatness of the past, hoping we shall find it again in the future. I am not worried. We have always found it again.

The Epic of Gilgamesh, he who has seen all things. I suppose the most surprising thing here is that it's actually good. It'a story thousand of years old and it's genuinely touching to read. The deep friendship between two men, Gilgamesh and Enkidu. Lust and women as the civilizing power. The (vain) quest for immortality and the typical flood myth. There's a wealth of narrative in here that goes beyond the gravity of this being simply the oldest work we have. I cannot recommend it enough and, more than that, recommend watching a few lectures on it afterwards. Andrew George has a few, as does Irving Finkle.

This one's a short story about two people aboard a sentient ship, on their way to explore some cosmical anomaly known as "julia". Replete with imagery and references there's a good ROI in looking things up here; Croesus, Aristagoras, Thetis. The computer which narrates it speaks like someone whose ingested all books. Reminded me of Solaris in the best of ways.

I suppose in some sense I'm afraid of agreeing with this book. It leaves me with a similar feeling as having read some Graeber during highschool, where I agree with most of the observations but just don't really find the offered solutions, or the cause of the observations to be particularly compelling. Fisher argues the typical point, that we cannot imagine a world that is non capitalistic, that we are so stuck in the current system it is the only lens through which we can view things. We are suspended in it, and thus cannot find a target to strike at. I'd say that it has never been any different in advanced societies, while the killing of Atahualpa was enough to end the Incas, even the restless guillotining in revolutionary france didn't end absolutism for very long.

The only powerful agents influencing politicians and managers in education are business interests. It's become far too easy to ignore workers and, partly because of this, workers feel increasingly helpless and impotent. The concerted attack on unions by neoliberal interest groups, together with the shift from a Fordist to a post-Fordist organisation of the economy – the move towards casualisation, just-in-time production, globalization – has eroded the power base of unions.

Similarly I'd disagree with this point. The merchant class is in essence powerless. Think of the billionaries in silicon valley unable to even prevent taxation in their district. He's right however that no one is going to help the workers, but I find it difficult to compare a google engineer making 300k/y with a coal worker durig Marx' time.

This is the first book I read in the new year, and my what a choice. I picked this up not out of some great desire for reading more christian apologetics, but mostly because of chesterton himself. Thus far I'd read a tidbit here and a quote there, but no proper book of his. It must be remarked here, that the prose is truly unlike anything I've seen in a long time. It flows and echoes in your mind as if someone was reading it alloud. I will not comment much on the christian apologetics, but that is not the best way to read this book. It's best parts are the start, before Chesterton looses himself in mysticism. I shall learn by heart that passage on troy and rome, plutarch's great triumph to

It's not a long book, and sorta self help slop a majority of the time, but it boils down to a few central theses. It is the pride and the excellence you put into your work that ultimately matters. There are few who still aspire to that excellence, and even fewer environments where that excellence can be applied. Attempt to find those. Or, barring that , create them. No tools ere too simple.