My earliest reading memory
Because I grew up in Stockholm, it’s not surprising that my earliest literary memories should revolve around Astrid Lindgren. The first novel I ever read may have been Ronja, the Robber’s Daughter.
My favourite book growing up
Throughout my childhood I was obsessed with Tintin. It was clear to me even then that these books were problematic (of the ones I had, Prisoners of the Sun, in particular, angered me), but they were also gorgeous and gripping. And their most magical quality was that, despite being absurdly linear and predictable, they demanded to be read over and over again.
The book that changed me as a teenager
Jorge Luis Borges’s Fictions. I must have been 13 and could not believe storytelling and reality itself could be bent in such ways. I never read, thought or felt quite the same way after reading that book. And I am still under its influence.
The writers who changed my mind
Henry James changed my mind about the English language in my teens. Theodor Adorno changed my mind about aesthetics a few years later. Samuel Beckett changed my mind about the novel in my mid-20s. George Eliot changed my mind about the ethical implications of storytelling in my 30s. David Markson changed my mind about literature as a whole in my 40s. Joy Williams will always change my mind in unsuspected ways.
The authors who made me want to be a writer
I’ve always wanted to be a writer, so I find it hard to anchor this desire to a date or a specific author. Something changed, however, when I discovered that the real excitement didn’t necessarily lie in the intricacies of the plot but in the exploration of language and form. Reading authors like Franz Kafka and Julio Cortázar in my early teens had a lot to do with this shift.
The author I came back to
I first met Virginia Woolf at the wrong time. But I’ve made up for my early indifference by showing a relentless proselytising fervour since revisiting her work, always ashamed of the dumb youth I once was.
The book I reread
After reading it for the first time at 18 (I vividly remember the afternoon I started it, the bus I was on, the seat on the left side, my confusion, my delight), I’ve returned to Moby-Dick over and over again.
The book I could never read again
I would never, ever, reread any of the countless books by Jacques Derrida that I obediently worshipped for so many years. It’s suffocating to merely think of the abstruse ugliness of that prose.
The book I discovered later in life
It took a long flight to Melbourne for me to discover, only last week, Helen Garner’s The Children’s Bach.
The book I am currently reading
Sly Stone’s memoir, Thank You (Falettinme Be Mice Elf Agin). And today I also read the first chapter of Joanna Russ’s The Female Man.
My comfort read
Pelham. Grenville. Wodehouse. Especially his books from the 1930s. They are so perfect that sometimes you don’t even notice how perfect they are. For absolute joy, alternate with some Max Beerbohm.
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