We’ve all had that one class. You know the one. You drag your feet getting there because you just can’t stay awake. Maybe the teacher speaks in a monotone. Maybe the subject matter is really uninteresting. Maybe it’s a government-controlled test to determine your attention span. Who knows! But either way, if you’re looking for a way to combat sleepiness in that class, we have some tips for you, courtesy of The Worst-Case Scenario Survival Handbook: College Edition.
David Mitchell’s Cloud Atlas completely floored me: the step-pyramid narrative structure, the inventiveness of each of the interwoven worlds, the neologisms and peculiarly delightful turns of phrase are all nothing short of fantastic, in every sense of the world. And while I’m as jazzed as anyone to crack open his latest novel The Bone Clocks, I’m also already dreading the day when it’s over. Feel the same way? Here are eight picks for us Mitchell fans to read next.
Happy Friday, everyone! There is a most literalicious, booksquisite weekend and week ahead. Enjoy, and if you have any particularly pagesome and readiculous experiences (sipping cider with a great new novel, or laughing 'til you cry at a reading), tell us @apiarymagazine on Twitter.
I was probably 11 or 12 the first time I read William Golding’s Lord of the Flies, and ever since then I’ve read the book about every five years. Why do I keep coming back to it? There’s something I can’t shake in the story—the slow descent from order to chaos, the images it conjures of a society created entirely by boys, and of course the characters: the wise Ralph, the alluring and dangerous Jack, the annoying (but ultimately correct) Piggy.
If you really want to hear about it, the first thing you’ll probably want to know is why I think The Catcher in the Rye is so damn important anyway. Big deal, we all read it in high school. Except I didn’t.
Well, I did. But that wasn’t my first time slipping into Holden Caulfield’s shoes.
My dad’s a great guy for a lot of reasons, but a big one is his support of my reading habit. When I was growing up, he and my mom all but shoveled books in my general direction, and I devoured them like a furnace. They knew I had a big imagination, so they gave me things in kind: stories about epic battles, or shadowy mysteries, or an average boy enrolled in a very un-average school.
So when my dad dropped a library copy of Catcher into my lap and I asked what it was about, I was surprised when he said, “It’s about a kid who wanders around New York.”
I stared at the cover, with its yellow text and sketchy rendering of a red carousel horse. Surely, robots or aliens would figure into his explanation any second. When they didn’t, I said, “And…?”