Some books rest on the bookshelf forever on the to-be-read list longer than they should, the books that online lists consider classics and conversations starters around how much a person can talk about the book without having read it. It’s a shame really. But there are so many good books.
There’s a pattern to many books I’ve read recently, where they will be “among the best books I’ve ever read.” I felt this was just recency bias, but the past twelve months have been kind. “My Year of Rest and Relaxation,” “Speedboat,” and “Rejection” are in this bucket of books that defied the affirmative advice from the commonly referenced writing craft books of that say to stay out of characters’ thoughts or drive narrative with causality or assumed readers have bad attention spans. These books kept making me mutter “You can just do this?” while I underlined and underlined pages of prose. These are some of the best books I’ve ever read and today I was blessed to read another, “Invisible Man” by Ralph Ellison.
Initially, it just gathered dust on the shelf for the same reason I’ve yet to watch 12 Years a Slave. Do I need yet another story telling me how awful and sad it is to be black in America? What a shame that that line of thinking kept me from enjoying such a beautiful, elegant, absurd, hilarious, rhythmic, and powerful work of art. It is one of the best books I’ve ever read and I implore you to read it for yourself. Yes, it centers around the black experience, but it transcends that label and puts on a display of the American experience. Reading it feels like jazz. It breathes. I didn’t come up with this; I believe Ellison said it; not only does reading it feel like a soloist trying to express themself over and with other musicians in an ensemble, but the entire book is about a person asserting themself among and against the influences of society, individual wills and collective forces. It’s a uniquely American novel.
I’m still soaking it in, but do yourself a favor and read it.
