A selection of feelings they left me with, not book reviews
The Doors of Perception by Aldous Huxley
Aldous Huxley is a master of brain play. A unique thinker who makes you want to look into the world with lenses you never knew existed. Huxley urges one to look deep into the annals of one's subconscious and to garner revelations brought out by the years of genetic information that we have stored within us. It's a rare category of book that not just urges us to explore many questions but answers more inner conscience based queries than any other book would. Huxley's vivid recounting of his mescaline experience pulls you into a world where ordinary objects shimmer with divine significance, and the boundaries of self dissolve. It leaves you questioning the nature of reality, your sensory limits, and whether you're living with blinders on. It’s unsettling, exhilarating, and profoundly introspective—a literary kaleidoscope for the mind.
Huxley, ever the seeker, penned this after exploring mescaline in 1953, aiming to delve into altered states of consciousness and their potential to reveal deeper truths about existence. For him, this wasn’t a mere drug experiment but a philosophical inquiry into perception, art, and spirituality. It’s an intellectual’s attempt to map the "Mind-at-Large," inspired by mysticism, science, and a dissatisfaction with conventional ways of seeing the world.
This book doesn’t just entertain—it disrupts. It forces you to rethink reality and how culture and biology shape your perceptions. By drawing parallels between drug-induced visions, art, and spiritual experiences, Huxley bridges science and mysticism, urging readers to embrace curiosity and seek the extraordinary in the mundane. For those intrigued by consciousness, creativity, or spirituality, it’s a mind-expanding starting point, though it also serves as a cautionary tale about the limits of intellectual control over ineffable experiences.
At its core, The Doors of Perception challenges you to open your mental windows, even if just a crack, to let in the light of alternate realities.
All That Remains by Sue Black
Death is the shadow in every room, the unspoken presence we pretend isn’t there. Sue Black, however, invites it to the table and asks it some remarkably insightful questions. With All That Remains, you find yourself in the company of a forensic anthropologist who doesn’t just demystify death—she illuminates it, weaving scientific rigor with a lifetime of deeply human experiences.
This book doesn’t try to soften the blow. Death is laid bare here: the bruises it leaves, the quiet clues it whispers, the stark truth of its aftermath. Black’s career, spent unraveling the secrets of bones and bodies, reveals something paradoxical: in death, people can be more honest than they ever were in life. A femur tells no lies; a skull doesn’t withhold its story.
Even those closest to us leave behind pieces of themselves we never fully understood.
But what sets this book apart isn’t just the science—it’s Black’s perspective. She approaches death not with morbidity but with a practical reverence. Her anecdotes aren’t just forensic—they’re personal. The way she threads her own losses into this tapestry of death and decay makes you pause, uncomfortable yet oddly comforted.
And then there’s the challenge she leaves us with: are we ready to face death, not just theoretically but fully? It’s not about making peace with it—it’s about seeing it as part of life’s fabric. Black’s voice lingers long after the last page, not as an ominous whisper but as a reassuring hand on your shoulder, guiding you toward a better understanding of what it means to be alive.
Death, in her hands, isn’t an end. It’s the start of a conversation we should all be having.
Enchiridion by Epictetus
Reading Enchiridion feels like a stern but loving coach shaking you awake to the power of your own mind. It’s empowering, humbling, and oddly comforting. The text offers a steadying hand in the chaos of life, teaching you to focus on what you can control and let go of the rest. It leaves you feeling lighter, as if someone untangled the mental knots you didn’t realize you had.
Epictetus didn’t write this himself; his disciple, Arrian, compiled these nuggets of Stoic wisdom. The aim was to distill Epictetus’s teachings into a concise guide for living well. As a former slave turned philosopher, Epictetus understood suffering and resilience firsthand. His teachings weren’t abstract philosophy—they were a practical toolkit for navigating life’s unpredictability with grace and strength.
The Enchiridion is a life manual, plain and simple. It equips you to face adversity with courage and accept the uncontrollable with serenity. Its lessons in self-mastery, mindfulness, and ethical living resonate across centuries. Epictetus offers timeless advice: focus on your actions and values, not external outcomes.
This little book will realign your priorities, teaching you that true freedom lies in how you choose to think and act. It might not be the best primer into Stoicism, a philosophy adept in dealing with modern problems, but its nevertheless a testing yet rewarding book.
Project Hail Mary by Andy Weir
If Project Hail Mary were a person, it’d be the nerdy, charming, and unexpectedly heroic friend you didn’t know you needed. From the moment Ryland Grace wakes up on a spaceship, alone and amnesiac, you’re hooked. As he pieces together his mission to save Earth from an extinction-level crisis, you’re swept into a mind-bending odyssey brimming with humor, suspense, and heart. The blend of hard science and human vulnerability makes this a rollercoaster ride of emotions—intense one moment, laugh-out-loud funny the next.
Andy Weir wrote this book for the science enthusiasts who revel in the "how" of things, but also for anyone who loves a good story about the resilience of the human spirit. It’s a celebration of curiosity, ingenuity, and the connections that make life worth fighting for—even with an alien who doesn’t speak your language but shares your stakes. The writing bursts with optimism, the belief that intellect and cooperation can solve even the most insurmountable problems.
Beyond the thrilling plot, Project Hail Mary gifts readers with a renewed sense of wonder about the universe. It reminds us of our capacity to learn, adapt, and survive in the face of the unknown. The relationship between Grace and his alien counterpart, Rocky, underscores the idea that friendship and empathy transcend species, language, and even galaxies.
This book isn’t just an interstellar adventure—it’s a love letter to science and humanity’s indomitable will to rise above. Whether you’re a space geek or just someone who roots for the underdog, Project Hail Mary leaves you with a smile and a spark of hope.
Hill of Devi by EM Forester
Reading Hill of Devi is like unearthing a delicate time capsule filled with wit, curiosity, and an undercurrent of nostalgia. Forster’s account of his time in Dewas as the secretary to the Maharaja blends his keen observations of Indian court life with his own struggle to reconcile admiration with disillusionment. The book feels like an intimate conversation—a little gossipy, a lot insightful, and unmistakably personal.
Forster’s motivation was twofold: to document his unique experience and to explore the cultural chasm between East and West. This isn’t a political or anthropological treatise; it’s Forster wrestling with his affection for India and his frustration with the complexities of colonial dynamics. The book feels like his attempt to humanize history through his own lens, with Dewas as the vibrant backdrop.
For me, having spent a year in the same circuit house where Forster lived, Hill of Devi feels more tangible and alive. Walking the same halls, gazing at the same landscapes he described—it adds a layer of intimacy to the reading experience. His words take on a different weight when you’ve shared the same physical space, even decades apart. The narrative of a dying kingdom with a crippled ruler and splintering kingdom is a reminder of the times of the sun setting on the Kingdoms in India.
This book doesn’t just add historical or cultural insight—it’s a reminder of how travel and human connections shape our perspectives. Forster’s work inspires readers to observe deeply, cherish idiosyncrasies, and embrace the contradictions of life. If nothing else, it’s a delightful testament to how one’s environment can become the cornerstone of creativity.
Such a Fun Age by Kiley Reid
Reading Such a Fun Age feels like diving into a brilliantly crafted gossip column—juicy, incisive, and impossible to put down. It’s as though Kiley Reid has written a blind item exposé but elevated it with her sharp, sophisticated narrative voice. The issues at its core might seem petty at first glance—who said what, who did what, and why—but Reid’s characters are anything but shallow.
Each chapter reveals new layers to the cast, constantly shifting your loyalties and challenging your assumptions. Just when you think you’ve pegged someone, Reid turns the table, leaving you to question not just the characters but yourself. It’s this constant seesaw of empathy and skepticism that keeps you hooked.
The scenes are laugh-out-loud funny—awkward grocery store encounters, cringey party conversations, and even a baby dancing to Beyoncé—but the humor doesn’t dilute the story’s impact. If anything, it magnifies it. Reid uses the dramedy format to explore weighty themes like race, privilege, and power dynamics with a deft touch that never feels preachy or heavy-handed.
The brilliance of Such a Fun Age lies in its ability to balance the deeply personal with the universal. The characters are troubled, flawed, and deeply human, their struggles resonating in ways you didn’t expect. Reid doesn’t spoon-feed you conclusions; instead, she presents a messy, nuanced world that feels incredibly real.
It’s a dramedy done to perfection—funny, biting, and ultimately revelatory. By the time you reach the last page, you’ll feel like you’ve read more than a novel; you’ve been part of a candid, uncomfortable, and utterly necessary conversation.
Sula by Toni Morrison
Reading Sula feels like stepping into an emotional vortex where every turn reveals a depth of humanity that you didn’t realize you could feel for strangers. Toni Morrison does something uncanny: she makes you bleed for people you’ve never met, grieve for lives you’ve never lived, and ache for places you’ve never been. Nel and Sula’s friendship is so raw, so tangled, and so profoundly human that you find yourself relating to their pain and joy as though it’s your own.
Morrison wrote Sula not just to tell a story but to illuminate the fragility and resilience of relationships—between friends, lovers, communities, and most importantly, oneself. Through the town of Bottom, she crafts a world brimming with hardship and tenderness, exploring how identities are shaped by the places we inhabit and the people who love or betray us. Morrison’s prose carries a rhythm that feels both intimate and mythic, making every sentence reverberate with universal truths.
What’s extraordinary is how this book evokes a nostalgia for a time and place you’ve never experienced. You can almost hear the whispers of Bottom’s streets, feel the weight of its history, and sense the heartache in its silences. You can even hear the catcalls and feel the male gaze upon you making you uncomfortable. It’s not just about the characters’ grief—it’s about how Morrison makes you carry it, too.
Sula teaches us that grief, love, and betrayal are not confined by time, place, or culture. It reveals the complexity of human bonds and the echoes of choices that ripple through lifetimes. By the end, you’re left with a bittersweet ache and an understanding of how deeply our lives are entwined, even with those we’ve never known.
Mammaries of a Welfare State by Upamanyu Chatterjee
He had me at the title, having read the better known "English, August", but I read on nonetheless. Like eating a mango on a Sunday afternoon, when you know it smells and looks perfect, the act of eating is just a ritual delivering ecstasy.
Upamanyu Chatterjee is undeniably one of the funniest authors India has ever produced. He doesn’t just make you laugh—he drags you into the murky depths of your own dark and dirty side, forcing you to confront it with a snort and a chuckle. His writing makes you feel a strange cocktail of emotions: ashamed, happy, and carefree, all at once. Few writers can wield humor as both a philosophical tool and a sharp commentary on society, but Chatterjee does so effortlessly.
In his hands, even the mundane becomes gag-worthy. A pan spittoon in the corner isn’t just a background detail—it becomes a vivid symbol, its pungency lingering in your mind as your brain churns to weave the grotesque imagery. Chatterjee’s humor works on multiple levels: it tickles your funny bone, churns your innards, and nudges your conscience awake.
Mammaries of the Welfare State captures the absurdity of Indian bureaucracy with uncanny precision, but it’s more than just satire. Chatterjee’s brilliance lies in showing how the ridiculousness of daily life reflects deeper truths about human nature and societal decay. His characters, flawed and self-absorbed, embody the contradictions we often fail to admit about ourselves.
Chatterjee’s wit is sharp, his commentary biting, but what makes his humor so powerful is its ability to be unintentionally philosophical. He reminds us that laughter doesn’t only stem from joy—it can emerge from discomfort, shame, and a deep recognition of life’s absurdities. By the end, you’re left marveling at how he turns the grotesque into gold, the mundane into magic, and the shameful into something uncomfortably liberating.
Dungeon Crawler Carl by Matt Dinniman
As a retired gamer, Dungeon Crawler Carl hits like a Rockstar Studios masterpiece—except this time, it’s in text. The vividness of its world-building is staggering, a cacophony of chaos and creativity that makes the black-and-white pages explode with colour. Dinniman crafts characters so wild, so utterly unique, that you can almost hear their voices and feel their presence, even though you’ve never seen anything like them before.
The humor is beyond applause—it’s gut-punch funny, the kind that leaves you grinning even in the middle of brutal carnage. Dinniman doesn’t concern himself with whether his characters are likable or morally sound, or even how they’re supposed to look. He’s here to tell his story, and he does so with a confidence that’s downright infectious. The result? A narrative that barrels forward with reckless abandon, pulling you along for the ride, whether you’re ready or not.
This isn’t just a book; it’s an adrenaline-fuelled experience that leaves you gasping for more. You laugh, you cringe, and then you laugh again, all the while marvelling at how Dinniman blends absurdity with depth. His storytelling doesn’t lecture or moralize—it revels in the sheer joy of its own existence.
Dungeon Crawler Carl is a testament to the power of immersive storytelling, where the lines between words and visuals blur, and you’re left feeling like you’ve just lived through the wildest video game ever created.
1Q84 Triology by Haruki Murakami There’s something about Haruki Murakami that demands space in your life—and your heart. I had stepped away from him after bingeing five or six of his works in 2013-15. Back then, I thought I’d consumed the best of his surreal, melancholic universe. Then he became a global pop-lit icon, and my interest waned—I wanted to avoid the hype. But 1Q84 always lingered, occupying a small, persistent corner of my mind. My brother’s glowing review only fanned the embers of curiosity, but I held back, knowing the emotional investment and inevitable heartbreak Murakami extracts.
And yet, when I finally dived into this 1,000-plus-page behemoth, it felt like surrendering to a slow, deliberate, and utterly consuming digestion. 1Q84 doesn’t just tell a story; it invades your psyche. Its characters don’t merely exist on the page—they weave into your daily life. You’ll find yourself thinking of Aomame or Tengo while signing a file at work or staring blankly at the ceiling, lost in their world.
Murakami’s signature melancholy permeates every sentence, seeping through your skin like osmosis and staining your heart with an ache you can’t quite name. The alternate reality of 1Q84 is hauntingly familiar yet eerily alien, its dual moons casting shadows that feel all too real. The narrative intertwines the surreal with the mundane so seamlessly that you stop questioning the strangeness and instead feel it settling in like an old, unshakable habit.
This isn’t a novel; it’s an experience that asks for everything and gives you pieces of yourself in return—altered, introspective, and stained by its lingering sadness. Murakami doesn’t just write books; he writes lives. And 1Q84 is one you’ll carry with you long after the final page, mostly unsatisfied.
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