National Book Month 2024: The Books in Our Lives
October is National Book Month. As a literary magazine, we figured now would be an apt time to share and write about the books in our lives. Whether it’s a book we’re currently reading or a book we just finished; a book we read for class or a book we read in high school. A book we fell in love with reading. A book that stayed with us. A book that defines the ideas and values we hold deeply. A book we can’t stop ourselves from rereading despite there already being ten books in our “To be read” list. A book we think everyone needs to read. Contrary to popular articles and essays suggesting a decline in reading culture—the notion that college students aren’t reading anymore or investing time into reading seriously—we still read.
The list we compiled includes a wide range of works spanning the world’s literary canon. From speculative science-fiction to historical fiction, murder mysteries to fairy tales, and diary entries to anthologies, we all chose a book for everyone. From the editors at REFRACT, here is what we've been reading:
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Caleb Williams by William Godwin. I had first read this book for a Law and Literature class which makes sense because this book’s central theme is about the power imbalance present in the institutions of law and society as a whole. Following that it makes sense that the most compelling part about the book, in my opinion, is the master-servant dynamic between Falkland and the titular Caleb.
Caleb in particular is a very endearing character. He truly possesses the perfect balance of cleverness and naïvety in the first half of the novel so that seeing him grow more and more jaded in the later half as he gets more and more screwed over by Falkland. Falkland himself is an interesting antagonist in his own right. He’s such an obvious culprit for the crime that it almost feels like he’s a red herring but it’s an interesting crime nevertheless and does good work in showing off his desire for power and a desire to present as this chivalrous figure. The cat-and-mouse game the two engage in creates the bulk of the novel and is very entertaining.
—Katerina Ventouratos, copy chief
Alias Grace by Margaret Atwood is a historical fiction novel that uses a combination of prose styles to combine elements of true murder mystery and psychological thriller. This book is recommended for readers interested in women’s experiences, the delicate line between sanity and madness, and the compelling force of truth. The story centers on Grace Marks, a household servant who was convicted of murdering her employer and his housekeeper in western Canada during the mid-18th century. As Grace’s life unfolds through a series of flashbacks, Dr. Simon Jordan—a captivating, Byronic psychologist—delves into the complexities of her mind, hoping to uncover what drove her to commit the murders. As the novel progresses, we're introduced to a vibrant cast of characters while an unsettling sense of dread gradually overpowers our senses. Grace, our protagonist, is a complex and polarizing figure, often deceptive and elusive, keeping her audience—and Dr. Jordan—constantly questioning her true nature. She leads us through various settings—a grimy women’s prison, a governor's mansion, and a cramped ship—sharing her story along the way. For those who like ambiguous and somewhat unsettling endings, look no further, as Atwood presents Grace's strange and ambiguous case with a commitment to factuality, ultimately offering no definitive resolution.
—Navipa Zaman, social media editor
“He was losing in his battle with the frost,” a line taken from To Build a Fire by Jack London. Its setting is arguably the most important, sinister, and bone-chilling part of its story—a harsh wilderness set in the wintery tundra of the frozen Yukon, where the cold is the main antagonist, challenging the main character’s focus to strategize warmth. At war with an elemental foe, the cold doesn’t just attack him directly, but freezes his will, shatters his soul, changes him, and anoints him. Our protagonist, driven by anxiety, seems to be losing his own battle within. Manic, he’s beginning to accept his fate. To lose hope and to lose here are permanent. The frost holds no ill will towards the man, it isn’t out to get him, it simply exercises its natural horror in the form of cold and disparity. No prudent soul would enter this realm of hell without the complete belief that they shall win. Unfortunately, our hero miscalculated; he was overcome by the very thing he sought out to defeat. Losing, he begins to realize he is merely a man. As the frost sinks deeper and deeper, sticking itself onto his flesh, it freezes him in place and morphs him into a statue of memories. An echo crystalized in white, cataloged by the world, forever stuck in time, believing once, it could’ve won.
—Rodrigo Buendia, editorial board
I'm a sucker for the mystery genre. I can't help but get a kick out of watching the series of events from a crime unfold while the characters slowly piece together the puzzle of a mess they're somehow wrapped up in. I take pleasure in this thrill, both from reading books and watching television, and take even more pleasure in comparing the differences between these media when discovering that the contents displayed in the literary version of a narrative have been translated into film. I was inspired to read the suspense novel, One of Us Is Lying by Karen McManus after stumbling upon its series adaptation. Soon after starting, I was prompted to research the show only to find out it was based on a book. I was immediately intrigued and ordered the novel before even finishing the work. The story follows four high school students with huge secrets, all suspects in the murder of their peer after witnessing his death in detention. However, this is not their only implication, as the victim themself was the publisher of the school's hottest gossip blog, set to reveal the mysteries of the suspects on their website the following day. Unlike the show, which has an unbiased narrator telling the story from an outside perspective, the book itself switches between the viewpoints of each suspect. I prefer the written version to its counterpart for this reason as it drives suspense. Switching narratives allows the reader to put themselves in the position of each character, further confusing the viewer as they learn to understand the motive behind each action. Yet, this effect also leaves you on edge, keeping you guessing what will happen next, as well as leaving you questioning who is guilty and of what.
—Skylar Cronick, editorial board
We’ve defined and incarcerated the term, “transgender” too pitifully. Must we always shutter in fear of others? As a trans teen myself, I bathed in self-pity and dysphoria. It started off with being too eccentric for an adolescent, too obsessed with George Harrison. I started drawing so much, I forgot who I was creating for. My existence lacked substance; I wanted to be a profound, long-haired male philosopher. I’ve wanted a true life so badly, yet I was reaching for absolutely nothing. Having a transgender identity helped me put a name to this melancholic chaos. So, like any other odd teen, I was on the hunt for trans media that I could relate to. Some were too old, too young, too sad, too confirmative. It fueled my hopeless edge.
I had a surprising aching to read. I haven’t read a full book in years. You get tired of despondency really fast when everyone your age is taking photobooth pictures at Koreatown. I wanted something that would inspire me, convince me that being a sad transgender boy was just as unique. I stumbled upon a gay transgender activist, his name was Lou Sullivan. He looked too happy. I read “diaries” in his biography and was hooked. I thought I was bound to find some saddening poems about self-hatred. Upon the first pages of We Both Laughed in Pleasure, I saw Ringo’s name and jumped. I didn’t know how universal begging your mother for a Beatles haircut was. These diaries were rich in freedom, writing so raw that it didn’t struggle to be philosophic. Sullivan’s entries were so free-spirited, so emotionally paradoxical, so natural. I could be a guy dancing with other guys and girls if I wanted to, I didn’t need to fit a criteria of angst and sorrow to be myself. As Sullivan said, “It’s so hard to separate happiness + sorrow—sometimes they’re almost the same thing.” If I am bound to fate, I must be as joyful as I want. Transgender joy is to be manifested, not earned.
—Moxxy Gutierrez, editorial board
It's been a number of years since I last picked up The Sirens of Titan by science fiction author Kurt Vonnegut, but it's remained in a unique place in my mental library. The book is set in a futuristic America and depicts a rich man's journey through space as he is caught in the middle of an interplanetary war. The Sirens of Titan takes a clear and interesting route through the usual sci-fi premises, exploring—among many other things—human nature, self-worth, and free will. It's a book you can read through and enjoy the first time, then reread and enjoy for an entirely different reason than the last. The more attention you give it, the more it has to offer to you, and that's what I love about Vonnegut's writing. The Sirens of Titan is an amazingly deep piece of writing that entertains in a dark, cynical, yet humorous way, and I recommend you pick it up as soon as you can.
—Camilo Mason, editorial board
Your nontraditional fairy tale book.
I recently found myself seeing Pan's Labyrinth for the fourth time. I saw it not just because it’s the spooky season, but because I enjoy remembering the first time I read the book as a high school junior (the book was originally published in 2019). Although the film, directed by Guillermo del Toro, is a masterpiece, the book, which was written by Cornelia Funke (author of The Thief Lord) and del Toro, introduced me to the world of fairy tale literature in a nontraditional way.
The book adds to the main character’s background. Ofelia, an 11-year-old child, has to lead with her evil stepfather, a civil guard officer who combats the anti-fascist resistance. Ofelia finds refuge in her fairy tale books that promise her an immortal journey. This book is a blend of horror and fantasy that, combined with history, got me in the first chapter.
—Jon Sosa, editorial board
Dan Simmons’s The Terror is a suspenseful horror and fictionalized historical account of the doomed Sir Franklin Arctic Expedition—or at least I hope it is. Having just recently started the book, I can say that it does seem geared towards imaginative content. With deep imagery, descriptive language, and an almost over-explained amount of detail, everything is laid out for the reader in abundance. Yet with this layout, there’s something to intrigue everyone, as diverse characters (in ideology and attributes, not so much race or background) in a dangerous and unwelcoming environment try to prevail against nature, the mythical, and each other. However, if I were to claim it was these qualities alone that attracted me to the book, that would be a falsehood. It was the AMC mini-series adaptation of the same name that caught my attention and, in complete honesty, brought me to love the story. Besides being a masterclass in production, cinematography, and the principle of “show, don’t tell,” the TV show is incredibly well-written. The characters are sympathetic and their actions make sense (although not always morally). From my understanding, the book and television show have a lot of differences, but I am currently enjoying the source materials even with all the shifts and changes. It's actually fun comparing the differences and liberties the showrunners took with the book, and how these contrasts make up two separate stories with similar beats.
—Margaret Wong, editorial board
The Norton Anthology of World Literature, third edition, volumes D, E, and F. I was introduced to this collection of books because they're a part of the required readings for my English class this semester. I've come to appreciate the nature of anthologies through reading these books. They offer me a glimpse into different worlds and ideas, all within the pages of a single book. From short stories and poems to Romantic pieces and memoirs, the list is endless when it comes to the type of writing you're exposed to within this anthology. Though the works may not be contemporary, they still address and offer social critiques on issues plaguing our modern world. Not to mention, the readings can be quite entertaining and unhinged!
So, if you're like me and prefer shorter and to-the-point readings that leave you with new perspectives and moments that make you cackle to yourself, then maybe the Norton Anthology of World Literature is for you.
—Kethlyn Young, editorial board
The book I am currently reading is Karl Ove Knausgaard’s, My Struggle, Book One: A Death in the Family. The book is the first in a six-part autobiographical series titled My Struggle, Min kamp in the original Norwegian. I began reading A Death in the Family in the summer after I picked up a secondhand copy from eBay. I’d heard of Knausgaard because of an interview he did with VICE Magazine in 2015. In the interview, he spoke about his writing habits, his relationship with his father, which he explores in most of his writing, and the reactions he received in Norway after publishing the My Struggle books. What I found particularly alluring was Knausgaard himself—a fascinating, well-spoken writer; a thick, syrupy accent; smoking another cigarette after finishing one.
A Death in the Family is broken into two parts: the first before the death of Knausgaard’s father and the second after. I am currently halfway through the first part. Before reading the book on my own, I’d read spoiler-free reviews of the book and watched another interview of his, this time, with novelist, Zadie Smith. Faced with the sheer volume of the book set out in front of me (it is a very thick book, 496 pages), I found myself pacing mentally, figuring out when to attack it. Many of the reviews I read noted its monotony, banality, and winded ramblings on the most minute details, which, although seem like negative comments, instead praise Knausgaard. I decided to bring the book with me on a camping trip this summer. I am still reading it to this day.
In the beginning of the first part, before an eight-year-old Knausgaard speaks to his father about a figure he saw in open waters on TV, Knausgaard’s writer persona addresses the reader with a lengthy contemplation on death. Knausgaard writes on the shame associated with death, how the living are quick to hide the dead from others. For a town that does not keep its dead out of sight—to leave corpses exposed for others to feast their eyes on—Knausgaard writes it’s no longer a town. Rather, it’s a hell. Knausgaard also distinguishes between the two realities of death: the first is the one concerned with fiction, the desensitized death, and the death one sees on TV through increasing numbers. The second is the death that one witnesses in real life—the paralyzing encounter with a dead body. “It must mean either that there are two kinds of death or that there is a disparity between our conception of death and death as it actually turns out to be, which in effect boils down to the same thing,” Knausgaard writes.
One other observation Knausgaard made on death prompted me to write it down on my Notes app. He writes on the eerie relationship between death and height, death and gravity.
“A hospital that transports its bodies upward, that sites its cold chambers on the upper floors is practically inconceivable. The dead are stored as close to the ground as possible. And the same principle applies to the agencies that attend them; an insurance company may well have its offices on the eighth floor, but not a funeral parlor. All funeral parlors have their offices as close to street level as possible … had it not been for the notion that transporting bodies upward in buildings seems contrary to the laws of nature, as though height and death are mutually incompatible. As though we possessed some kind of chthonic instinct, something deep within us that urges us to move death down to the earth whence we came.” (p. 6)
—Aleander Santos, editor-in-chief
FALL 2024
Below are links that will redirect you to places where you can buy the books listed in the article. For the links, we selected two independent bookstores located in New York City: McNally Jackson (locations in Williamsburg, Downtown Brooklyn, Seaport, Rockefeller Center, and Nolita) and Greenlight Books in Fort Greene, Brooklyn. The links will redirect you to paperbacks (which are cheaper than hardcovers). Although, for some of the books, there are hardcovers available.