The summer that I turned ten years old, I managed to dodge assigned reading. I was preparing to switch schools, bracing myself to repeat the fourth grade. I didn’t feel great about what was happening, but there was a silver lining. The liminal space of summer represented a brief period where I was free from institutional attachments. I didn’t have to choose a reading-level-appropriate novel from a teacher-curated list. I didn’t need to muscle through slim, pastel-colored books with gaggles of girls on their covers. And I could skip the recommended award winners…at least for now.
It was a relief.
I was tired. Tired of being recommended books about girlhood. Books that were supposedly going to teach me something about myself and the world. Books where girls with wistful looks stood along the coastline.
I read only one book that summer. Unsupported by audio-accommodations, timers, and other adult-lead interventions, finishing it felt like a huge accomplishment. One that felt even more delicious because it was something I’d done on my own. No assignments. No accountability. No worries.
You likely have never heard of this book, although you almost certainly know the work of its author. I chose it based on its cover (dark and gothic, centered on an image of an elderly man) and its thickness (meatier than anything I’d read up to that point).
Count Karlstein was the first book I read in secret with no one looking over my shoulder. Published in 1982, it was Phillip Pullman’s debut novel, adapted from a play that he originally wrote for his middle school students. The book is a multi-point-of-view mystery set in a small Swiss village at the beginning of the 19th century—not exactly what you think of when you think of children’s literature, but this is precisely what pulled me into this story. Pullman’s extensive cast of voicey characters included bad actors and unreliable narrators, and this made the story dynamic in a way I had not experienced before. Looking back, I’m impressed that I was able to keep up with the details. It was indicative that I was advancing as a reader. I was no longer ‘emerging.’ Instead, I’d taken my practice underground.
In the years that followed, I attempted to read Pullman’s His Dark Materials Trilogy but I petered out at The Subtle Knife. It turned out that this author’s style was not what had attracted me. It was the structure of a multi-point-of-view mystery.
This year, I wrapped up my grown-up version of summer reading with Percival Everett’s The Trees— another voicey, perspective-hopping mystery with an expansive cast. While Pullman and Everett’s novels have some structural similarities, it feels almost silly to compare two novels with such wildly different content. As with most of Everett’s work, The Trees is genre-bending: a bit of police procedural and a bit of zombie-horror rendered as literary fiction. Shortlisted for the 2022 Booker Prize, the story expertly navigates the history of lynching in the United States with a directness and scope that I haven’t really seen in fiction before. Meanwhile, Pullman, with his all white cast in a cloistered fictional community, isn’t trying to make any larger cultural points with his story. These two mysteries are from very different time periods and were written for vastly different audiences, but for me they are still linked. I likely would never have read The Trees if I had not read Count Karlstein all those years ago.
Certain books are milestones, whether we know it or not. They have the power to shape your tastes for years to come or completely turn you off to an entire genre and style. Some will invite you to veer into the weird and unexpected. Some will empower you to take your reading practice underground.
With the fall equinox nearly upon us, I’m happy to close out this series of reflections on summer reading with some book recommendations, all of which were excellent underground reads (i.e. stuff I have not written about online). Each of these books are awesome companions for autumnal-burrowing:
Magic Lessons by Alice Hoffman — The most recent installment of the Practical Magic series. Set in the late 1600s, it follows the story of Maria Owens, the matriarch and clan originator of your favorite family of hot witches.
Rest is Resistance by Tricia Hersey — A necessary and timely manifesto by The Nap Bishop. Required reading for decoding your internalized capitalism.
Kitaro by Shigeru Mizuki — Eloise at the Plaza meets Beetlejuice in this 1960 manga. Young Kitaro uses his yökai spirit powers to take on evil ghosts and ghouls. Hijinks ensue.
Nonbinary by Genesis P-Orridge — A look at spirituality, music, performance art, and gender from the lead singer of Psychic TV. A top contender for this year’s Quinnie Award (™).
Vacationland by John Hodgman — For adults who don’t know how septic systems work and have anxiety about it. Whether you have zaddy energy, dad-bod energy, or both— this one is for you.