by Lao Tzu (~300 BC)

2025 reads, 3/25

“Empty yourself of everything. Let the mind become still. The ten thousand things rise and fall while the Self watches their return.”

How does one even review the Tao Te Ching? It's like reviewing the Bible, as it’s infinite interpretability and historical endurance situate it as one of the most translated texts in world literature. Thousands of scholars and philosophers have written thousands of essays, analyses, and translations. So, after one measly read through of this foundational text in Taoism, what does a white guy from New Jersey have to add?

Nothing.

But although I’m no scholar on Taoist thought, Eastern philosophy, or literally any sort of humanities discipline, I can talk about my experience reading it. First, and I think most will agree, that I find it odd to call Taoism a religion, at least not how I think of one in the traditional WASP sense: church services, prayers, commandments, bread & wine. I find this much more introverted, contemplative, philosophical – a way of life, if you will.

“The space between heaven and Earth is like a bellows. The shape changes but not the form; The more it moves, the more it yields.”

And as with any philosophy, I cannot just read the Tao Te Ching and call it a day. I need to think it and live it. And although I started reading it last year, absorbing it bit by bit while I have my morning tea, I’m certainly not there yet; but I have the physical book, and I’m going to do my best to go back to it when I can.

So maybe this wasn’t really a review, maybe this was more of a personal reaction. The four stars don’t really mean anything. (Do numerical reviews ever really mean anything?) It’s short enough to check out yourself, too: I enjoyed the translation I have, the one by Gia-fu Feng and Jane English – supposedly it sacrifices some intricacy in exchange for straightforward prose that cuts to the essentials of the original (and you can even find it online).

“The Tao begot one. One begot two. Two begot three. And three begot the ten thousand things.”

#readingyear2025 #philosophy

by G. K. Chesterton (1908)

2024 reads, 25/22:

“An anarchist is an artist. The man who throws a bomb is an artist, because he prefers a great moment to everything. He sees how much more valuable is one burst of blazing light, one peal of perfect thunder, than the mere common bodies of a few shapeless policemen. An artist disregards all governments, abolishes all conventions. The poet delights in disorder only.”

For this year’s October “spooky” read, I went in a bit of a different direction. Maybe it was because the other horror books on my to-read list were already checked out on Libby, but I decided to tackle something I added to my to-read list years ago. The Man Who Was Thursday, by G. K. Chesterton, is a novel about man who infiltrates a seven-man anarchist group, all with codenames that represent the different days of the week. And honestly, what better story to finish around Halloween, than one of metaphorical masks and anarchistic misbehavior?

A foggy London town sets the backdrop of our two main characters, Lucian Gregory, the anarchist poet, and Gabriel Syme, his foil. You’ve probably immediately clocked the biblical imagery here: Lucian, a play on Lucifer, the fallen angel of light, and Gabriel, representing the archangel and heavenly messenger. But it doesn’t stop there – the Christian allegory is rampant in symbolism and motifs throughout this novel, and I’m sure there were many allusions that I missed.

Early on, Chesterton doesn’t hold back in hitting us with a few reveals and twists, and what starts as a philosophical musing on double identities, and the role of anarchy in society, quickly unfolds into a mysterious thriller. There’s still lots of exposition on these topics, especially when Syme starts to ponder about whatever current situation he’s in, but it is contrasted by witty (and even comical) dialogue. Seriously, I was surprised at how slapstick these characters could be.

“‘Secretary,’ said the President seriously, ‘if you'd take your head home and boil it for a turnip it might be useful. I can't say. But it might.’”

Although published in early twentieth century England, the writing is not terribly dated for a novel of that era (though I did have to look up a few archaic words at times). And there’s enough action to keep things interesting, to keep you wanting to know what happens next. I guess that’s all we can really ask for, right?

“This particular evening, if it is remembered for nothing else, will be remembered in that place for its strange sunset. It looked like the end of the world. All the heaven seemed covered with a quite vivid and palpable plumage; you could only say that the sky was full of feathers, and of feathers that almost brushed the face.”

#readingyear2024 #british #philosophy

by Sarah Bakewell (2016)

2024 reads, 7/22

“The philosopher’s task is neither to reduce the mysterious to a neat set of concepts nor to gaze at it in awed silence. It is to follow the first phenomenological imperative: to go to the things themselves in order to describe them, attempting ‘rigorously to put into words what is not ordinarily put into words, what is sometimes considered inexpressible’.”

In At the Existentialist Café, Bakewell presents a very digestible recount of the events surrounding Jean-Paul Sartre, Simone de Beauvoir, and the lives of other philosophers in the twentieth century. The first few chapters are dedicated to Husserl and Heidegger, the phenomenologists who paved the way for the existentialists. The chapters then follow a pseudo-chronological order, exploring other philosophers such as Camus, Merleau-Ponty, and Arendt, although mostly in the context of Sartre and Beauvoir’s lives.

I read this book mostly to get the historical context surrounding Camus and Sartre, after reading some of their works. I still want to read a biography solely focused on Camus, but this book was great at providing a much larger picture of philosophy at the time, and how it still influences humanity into the twenty-first century. While a bit dry at times, especially in some of the early chapters, Bakewell expertly breaks down the dense writings of each philosopher so that us non-philosophers can understand.

“Sartre argues that freedom terrifies us, yet we cannot escape it, because we are it.”

If you are interested in this book, I would recommend first reading The Stranger and The Myth of Sisyphus by Camus, and Nausea by Sartre – these books are “spoiled” (depending how you define the word) and analyzed by Bakewell, and her discussion felt more “complete” having already read some of these works.

“The way to live is to throw ourselves, not into faith, but into our own lives, conducting them in affirmation of every moment, exactly as it is, without wishing that anything was different, and without harbouring peevish resentment against others or against our fate.”

#readingyear2024 #bio #history #philosophy #physicallyowned

by Clarice Lispector (1973)

2024 reads, 5/22

“This text that I give you is not to be seen close up: it gains its secret previously invisible roundness when seen from a high-flying plane. Then you can divine the play of islands and see the channels and seas. Understand me: I write you an onomatopoeia, convulsion of language. I’m not transmitting to you a story but just words that live from sound.”

Água Viva seems to delicately straddle the line between novella, poetry, meditation, conversation, and monologue. It’s pretty short, but don’t let the page count fool you – I had to reread multiple passages to even attempt an understanding of her words. But if you break through her prose, you are treated with a linguistic tour de force of a novel.

“Every once in a while I’ll give you a light story— melodic and cantabile area to break up this string quartet of mine: a figurative interval to open a clearing in my nourishing jungle.”

As far as I’m aware, Água Viva is the only title of Lispector’s that isn’t translated from Portuguese. There seems to be no good translation; it can literally translate to “jellyfish,” but “stream of life,” “running water,” or even “where all flows” are better approximations. My favorite of these is “running water,” since the narrator seems to bubble up this stream-of-consciousness of never-ending thoughts. It’s filled with metaphors, fourth wall breaks, and beautiful imagery of the human condition – sometimes it’s even a bit discomforting.

Is there a plot? Not really. The most I could surmise about the narrator was that they were an artist, maybe a painter or musician, now attempting writing: the experience of writing itself, its relation to other arts, and life. This writing can be distant and seemingly cryptic. But imagery revolving around the natural world is explored as well, such as the passage where the narrator personifies different types of flowers. It’s these passages that feel like the narrator is Lispector herself – and I believe it’s her way of grounding her cosmic language with us.

“I’m going to make an adagio. Read slowly and with peace. It’s a wide fresco.”

How cool was that? The musical metaphor almost immediately morphed into an artistic metaphor – this type of contorting language is used often. It displaced me at first. But the moments where she seems disconnected from us, where she reaches the depths of the human condition (recalling de profundis, if you’ve read Near to the Wild Heart), are equally balanced by moments of direct language: we are reprieved, for the time being. The oscillation between her shallow and intense prose is yet another representation of this running water, this breathing of language, this água viva.

“For now there’s dialogue with you. Then it will be monologue. Then the silence. I know that there will be an order.”

Lispector has slowly but surely climbed her way among my favorite authors with this one. Infinitely returnable and emotionally unfiltered, there’s always something new to discover in each reread. If you’re looking for something different, give Água Viva a chance. Analyze it in depth, or let the words wash over you: you’ll be rewarded either way.

“Today I finished the canvas I told you about: curves that intersect in fine black lines, and you, with your habit of wanting to know why— I’m not interested in that, the cause is past matter—will ask me why the fine black lines? because of the same secret that now makes me write as if to you, writing something round and rolled up and warm, but sometimes cold as the fresh instants, the water of an ever-trembling stream. Can what I painted on this canvas be put into words? Just as the silent word can be suggested by a musical sound.”

Addendum: A similar experience to reading this would be listening to Tim Hecker’s ambient album Haunt Me, Haunt Me Do It Again in full; it’s a perfect pairing. Both are meditative and thought-provoking, seasoned with a slight lingering discomfort throughout.

#readingyear2024 #favorites #philosophy #wtf #physicallyowned #lispector

by Aaron Fisher (2022)

2023 reads, 5/12:

“By being quiet and present to the tea, on the inside, we are sharing ourselves with the moment. The tea, once a plant – rain, earth, and sky – is now becoming human, a part of the stream of human consciousness.”

This book was a great introduction to the history of tea as a meditation. Right from the beginning, Fisher tells us that the subject of tea, meditation, and Taoism could fill volumes, and that this book doesn’t even begin to scratch the surface. Instead, he goes above and beyond to give his own insights as someone living a life of meditation and clarity (and tea!), with some information about tea history and traditional ceremonies. It was a great book, and I enjoyed reading it during my tea sessions.

#readingyear2023 #foodanddrink #philosophy

by Jean-Paul Sartre (1946)

2023 reads, 2/12:

“My purpose here is to offer a defence of existentialism against several reproaches that have been laid against it.”

This book was really a lecture that Sartre gave on October 28, 1945, in Paris, in order to defend the philosophy of existentialism, and describe it to a general audience (this book was published a year later). He emphasizes the underlying creed – that existence precedes essence – and spends the rest of the lecture giving examples and further clarifying his thoughts.

This was more so a utility read for me, to further understand Sartre’s thoughts on what existentialism was. It wasn’t as dry as I was expecting, but the short length helped with that. Regardless, it was great seeing how Sartre had expanded on and refined his ideas since [book:Nausea|298275], a book seemingly overwhelmed with despair. Not sure if there’s any historical accuracy to this, but I could see that book being one of the reasons he felt the need to defend existentialism. I overall enjoyed this, and would classify it as an essential to anyone who wants to further understand existentialism (and how it differs from absurdism), and the general French philosophy at the time.

“This relation of transcendence as constitutive of man (not in the sense that God is transcendent, but in the sense of self-surpassing) with subjectivity (in such a sense that man is not shut up in himself but forever present in a human universe) – it is this that we call existential humanism”

#readingyear2023 #philosophy

by Jean-Paul Sartre (1938)

2022 reads, 13/20:

“Three o'clock. Three o'clock is always too late or too early for anything you want to do. An odd moment in the afternoon. Today it is intolerable.”

This one has been sitting on my bookshelf since I bought it last year. As a seminal piece of existentialist literature, I’ve been cautious of the warnings before going into this book, as it is supposed to make you question not just your own existence, but the existence of everyone and everything around you.

"...my God how strongly things exist today…”

Nausea is Sartre’s character-study-slash-philosophical-text written in the form of diary entries from Antoine Roquentin, a French historian who takes up residence in the fictional city Bouville after travelling abroad for many years. He starts this diary to try and understand this feeling of ‘nausea’ that overwhelms him, in order to figure out why he feels like he does. In doing this, Roquentin painfully details every single thought he has: the physicality of objects, the illusion of time, and his own existence.

There aren’t many characters in this book, but the ones that Roquentin does interact with (a local waitress, an autodidact aptly named the Self-Taught Man, and his ex-girlfriend, Anny) allow for Sartre to present his arguments for existentialism as dialogues. These were interesting to read, but I found that the most interesting sections of the book were the passages where Roquentin is on his own, such as the museum visit or chestnut tree. These scenes were well-written and beautifully described the thoughts of someone going through an existential crisis.

Nausea is a heavy book, in both text and emotion, but it lays out the early ideas of Sartre’s philosophy very well. It was also great to compare Sartre’s existentialism with Camus’ absurdism, and see those differences expressed via Roquentin. I won’t deny that the novel can get bit dry at times, but I think it’s accessible enough for anyone wanting to get into Sartre's works or existentialist philosophy.

“I wanted the moments of my life to follow and order themselves like those of a life remembered. You might as well try and catch time by the tail.”

#readingyear2022 #philosophy #physicallyowned

by Jean-Paul Sartre (1947)

2022 reads, book 1/20:

This book contains four plays of Jean-Paul Sartre, published between 1943 – 1947. I was most excited to read No Exit, but upon receiving this collection, I’ve read and compiled thoughts for all four plays in this edition below. I would rate the whole collection about 4 stars, but read on for the individual scores below.

No Exit (Huis Clos): A simple premise: three people, who didn’t know one another on Earth, arrive in hell. We, as the audience, simply watch (or read) the dialogue that ensues between them. What starts off a bit slow quickly ramps up to accusations being thrown, secrets being revealed, and true natures coming out at full force. I think it’s a great play, because not only is it a fun read at the surface level, but you can dig deeper into the meanings that Sartre hoped to communicate in this play, regarding freedom, acceptance from others and self-worth. 5/5 stars!

The Flies (Les Mouches): A retelling of the Greek tragedy Electra, which I was unfamiliar with before reading this. The main character Orestes returns to his home city, where he was kidnapped/rescued from as a child, as his father, the king, was murdered by his mother’s lover years earlier. He comes back and meets up with Electra, his sister who still lives there, to enact revenge. While the plot itself didn’t do much for me, the themes and motifs on religion, freedom, and guilt were interesting to dig into as I was reading. As a side note, the context in which Sartre wrote this was fascinating; it is said that he wrote this play to mirror the state of the German occupation of France, but in order to get it past Nazi censors, he disguised the plot into a Greek myth. Overall, 3/5 stars.

Dirty Hands (Les Mains sales): This one was a pretty fun read. It starts off in the future, where we learn that the main character Hugo just finished jail time for assassination of a political figure, and spend the rest of the play revisiting the events that led up to the assassination, to learn why he did it. The dialogue between the characters was witty, expertly written, and never felt dry. Not only was there substance, but the whole play even read like a comedy at times. 4/5 stars overall.

The Respectful Prostitute (La Putain respectueuse): Although it was short, this one was a rough. Set in the American south in the 1940s, this play explored not just racism, but power of the different political figures of that time. It was rough to read because of the vulgarity of the language, and the way that most, if not all, the characters acted throughout. Not only that, but the ending unfortunately was a bit unsatisfactory, so this gets 3/5 stars.

#readingyear2022 #physicallyowned #philosophy #theatre

by Albert Camus (1942)

"I leave Sisyphus at the foot of the mountain. One always finds one's burden again. But Sisyphus teaches the higher fidelity that negates the gods and raises rocks. He too concludes that all is well. This universe henceforth without a master seems to him neither sterile nor futile. Each atom of that stone, each mineral flake of that night-filled mountain, in itself, forms a world. The struggle itself toward the heights is enough to fill a man's heart. One must imagine Sisyphus happy."

It would be unfair to give this anything less than four stars, even though at times it felt like a three-star read. But that would be my own fault, since Camus pretty much assumes you know a good amount of many philosophers before him. Does this mean the book is not worth reading? I certainly don’t think so. I just knew that I needed to have my phone at the ready to get a quick history lesson in case Camus name-dropped someone nonchalantly.

As far as content, though, it really does an excellent job of getting to the point (eventually). By that, I mean I would find myself reading a few pages, wondering where things were heading, only for it to all click at a later point in time. The first section and the last section were probably my favorite, with being a little drier in the middle. Overall though, a great read to get to the core of Camus’ ideas, and the best way (other than maybe reading The Stranger) to understand absurdism at its core.

#readingyear2021 #absurdism #philosophy