10 years in 10 books

    Where am I supposed to be in 10 years? I’ve hardly given any thought to my future, let alone to the kind of book I should be reading when that time comes. I suppose this is my comeuppance for deferring the uncomfortable contemplation of issues that were meant to be resolved earlier rather than later. I’d really rather just be a bum and sit at home, the true calling of a second generation with no true hardships in life.
 

I've always judged a book by its cover, and I find this one delightful

    Well, I suppose that the first step in this journey of 10 years is going to college… Although maybe I even fail at that and end up an eccentric, wandering the countryside in search of meaning. When that time comes, maybe the best book to read is A Psalm for the Wild-Built. A book by Becky Chambers, which features a tea monk in a solar punk world. “Tea monk” is certainly a novel occupation for me, but I consider tea brewing one of my hobbies, so I would be sure to cultivate a love for this lifestyle.

    Scratch that. If we’re being realistic, I’m too materialistic to embrace this hippie vagabond lifestyle. Skipping out on college would likely lead me down the road of a smattering of various part-time jobs, while I bemoan the failure of my lazy teenage years. In this journey, I’d find myself a victim of the capitalist machine, sustaining my own materialistic desires by fulfilling others. I Deliver Parcels in Beijing, a memoir by Hu Anyan, delivers a raw and almost dystopic view of gig work in China. Perhaps I’d find solace in the shared sufferings of this new lifestyle and feel affirmed in my critiques of modern definitions of economic success.

    But the middle class isn’t known for its radicalism. In 10 years, I’d end up in a situation similar to this one now. Tired, hunched over at a desk, typing away at a computer to complete a task assigned to me. This resigned nature to work likely wouldn’t come without great turmoil, as I cling tenaciously to the vestiges of childhood comforts. To Live, by Yu Hau, would be a far more dramatic rendition of my journey of growth. A book whose film adaptation was banned in China, this tale of hardship would speak to any soul on the need for hard work.

    Maybe I’m thinking about this all wrong. My true tragedy wouldn’t just come from an ability to confront the bitter nature of work and success in society economically, but in the face of romantic pursuits. Perhaps, I would be as tragically trapped in unrequited love as the unnamed protagonist in White Nights by Fyodor Dostoevsky, writing letters for a person who has their heart set on another person. A beautifully ironic application of my stationery obsession towards romantic fixation.

    More likely, I would never misappropriate the beauty of my stationery for such a dismal occupation. Alone and overworked in my late 20s, I’d stubbornly seek some sort of intellectual pursuit that I could parade as evidence of a higher-minded nature than my more successful peers. Ulysses by James Joyce is more often talked about than read, and nearly half the recommendations of the book were simply collections of required reading before the book itself. The perfect time sink for a future in pursuit of vain academic superiority.

 

    Talking about the lives of Irish people seems to me a chore, and the amount of mental power it takes to comprehend Ulysses might be beyond my capacity. Someday, I'd like to experience life found in The Wall, a dystopian novel focused on a female protagonist cut-off from the rest of society. I'm particularly envious of her lineup of animal companionship. Perhaps my birthplace peeking through, but I have always wanted to own a cow. They're just the most delightful animals to watch in the pastures and eat in my plate.

 
    The Life of a Stupid Man seems to summarize the multitude of possible futures before me, although I’m afraid that’s offensive to the mental struggles that Ryūnosuke Akutagawa went through when writing this semi-autobiographical work. A painful depiction of his struggle with existence and the burdens of trauma from his mother’s mental illness, maybe I’d develop an appreciation of the life that I’ve been given.

    If I do ever end up alone it would be a consequence of my own choosing, and because of that, I think I’d find a lot in common with the protagonist of I’m Thinking of Ending Things, by Iain Reid. This mystery features a troubled relationship between 2(?) even more troubled people, and touches on themes of loneliness and the struggle between reality and fantasy.

    Looking back, this is all far too dismal. I don’t think my life would be some tragic epic they write about in Greek plays. I truly yearn for the lifestyle of the white picket fences, and after 10 years of maturity and a new perspective in the workforce I’d devote more thought to AI and its role in society. Raised on sci-fi films and ever worried about the future, The Alignment Problem by Brian Christiansen would (hopefully) assuage my worries about a future with AI overlords in place of the human ones.

    But in 10 years, the books I’d like to read the most is are the Journals, a collection of horribly unsophisticated rambling by my younger self. Whether for amusement or due to a sense of nostalgia, I’d look upon my current entries with a profound fondness for the thoughts and nature of me today. Which seems writing before the event, as if I’m imposing a duty on my future self to come back to this moment. Regardless of what lies ahead in my future, I needn’t worry or overly fixate on the numerous moments where I could go wrong. For now, all I'm sure to do is faithfully archive the events as they unfold - weaving a beautiful tale of life, meaning, and acceptance.