20 books.

That’s how many I read this year. That is, the ones I actually finished anyway. Because I have picked up several books which I started reading but (1) gave up because I had better use of my time than voluntarily subjecting myself to literary torture; or (2) are still sitting on my bedside table waiting for me to finish them as soon as the mood kicks in.

I was a bit of a daredevil this year. Dipped my toe in the classic waters of Dostoyevsky and found myself growing a new network of neurons in order to grasp the Russian author’s stream of consciousness that was both painful and insightful to read. This was one of those books where a highlighter was necessary, as there were a lot of truths that resonated with me when I was in a position to comprehend them.

Man is fond of reckoning up his troubles, but does not count his joys. If he counted them up as he ought, he would see that every lot has enough happiness provided for it… even sometimes there is happiness in the midst of sorrow; and indeed sorrow is everywhere.

Fyodor Dostoyevsky, Notes From Underground

Needless to say, this was a very serious read. Highly cerebral. It demanded rigorous concentration and emotional preparation. Supreme efforts that were awarded with a deeper understanding as to man’s peculiarities that make him a man — a strange yet complex creature but beautiful either way, in spite and despite of. How we all wear masks, sometimes even to ourselves. It takes a lot of honesty and courage to be real, especially in a society where there is pressure to conform and to yield to the general expectation of what life should be.

Those six titles above were probably my favourites of the whole lot, plus Don Miguel Ruiz’s The Four Agreements which was a great book, too.

The rest were enjoyable, but not particularly memorable. Two of them — The Secret Lives of Dresses and The Collected Regrets of Clover — had great potentials of turning into riveting stories but ended up a complete disappointment with the shallowness of their plots and the lack of depth of their characters.

I don’t know. Could be just me, though. Turning into a pretentious snob simply because I read one Dostoyevsky and suddenly felt like a fucking intellectual.

But looking back, my mood was pretty erratic this year as far as book selection was concerned. I was a bit wishy-washy. Toying with titles and emotionally discarding them halfway through as I semi-lost interest in the stories and simply finished them so my effort wouldn’t feel so wasted. That’s not to say the books were abysmal. All I’m saying is, perhaps I wasn’t in the proper mindset to appreciate them at the time.

Either that, or it was definitely The Dostoyevsky Effect.