Life without great books would be worse than a tale told by an idiot, signifying nothing. It would remain untold and thereby unshared, which would be worse.

Pictured above are six books. I enjoyed them recently (the Franklin study; Crane’s stories; and Cheever’s masterful novel) and three I’m currently still reading (the Dickens bio; Herbert’s sci-fi tome; and another DeLillo gem).

The Kidd volume on Franklin I deeply enjoyed. I am a big fan of Kidd’s books, so I am biased in his favor, as his interests and mine intersect greatly.

Falconer was amazingly sad but so brilliantly written by the plagued John Cheever that I read it in a 12-hour sitting.

Crane was tough as nails, as ever. I don’t espouse his atheism, but he gets soldiers and military life, and is not afraid to portray the darker and more brutal sides of our nature, and (in his view) the indifference of heaven to our suffering.

For me, Dickens remains among my favorites. I’m going through this bio of him, and it is massively thick but worth every page.

Dune, though I’m not a science fiction guy, was recommended to me. So far, it is okay. I’m sure it will grow on me.

DeLillo’s Players is, true to DeLillo’s angle, his linguistic deftness, and his haunting timbre, right up my alley. I believe DeLillo was and is a prophet, just like Cormac McCarthy was. But so few listen. Again, just as both writers predicted.