Every book I read in July

I’m starting a new tradition at Knowledge Lust! At the end of each month, I’m going to send a newsletter on the books I read that month.

This kills two iguanas with one mallet: I give you book recommendations while forcing myself to think more deeply about the books I read, thus enhancing my self-education.

Here we go.

This reading month ended up being politically dialectic. I think Socrates would’ve approved.

For example, I read a contemporary novel satirizing the tradwife movement, as well as a non-fiction book critiquing the techno-capitalist modernity that makes some aspects of a traditional living movement seem like a no-brainer—move to the mountains, throw away the TV, anything to escape machine culture!

Overall, this has been a head-spinning reading month. Lots of conflicting perspectives flying at me. This productive tension has been great for my own thinking on contemporary issues and timeless questions about living the good life.

Here are the four books I read, why I chose them, and what I thought about them.

The Cider House Rules is the fourth novel I’ve read this year by John Irving. It’s a coming-of-age story about an orphan who can’t get adopted, is trained to be a surgeon at a young age (by the orphanage’s surgeon-in-residence), and goes on a journey of young and dangerous love to figure out who he is and who he wants to become.

In this novel, Irving uses his characteristic dark sense of humor to explore heavy subjects like abortion, bestiality, and sexual abuse (what a lineup!) in a way that can make you laugh, cringe, and nearly vomit on the very same page.

The novel appears to me to be one of Irving’s more political novels. I mean, almost all of his novels seem to feature some sort of loony extremist, both from the right and the left. But this one feels more dialed into a specific debate: you know, the good ol’ abortion argument.

While his message is certainly pro-choice, his stance feels like a result of so much inner moral conflict, as portrayed through the nuanced arguments and decisions of the characters, that I suspect the novel should find at least somewhat accepting company even in the homes of thinkers who fall on the other side of the fence—or not; maybe nuance is out. Maybe the days of liberal thinker John Galbraith and conservative William F. Buckley being buddies despite their ideological differences are over? Maybe this divide is too wide to build a bridge over.

What I found most interesting, though, wasn’t the political strain of the novel—it rarely is. Instead, it was the relationship between the orphan, Homer, and the surgeon at the orphanage, Dr Larch. I felt it captured the emotional tug-and-pull of father-son love—of needing to go off on your own, then missing your father; of wanting to fix something yourself, and then needing old dad’s help. I was moved by it.

At its core, the novel is about love: its promises, its dangers, its beauty.

Oh, and as always, I enjoyed Irving’s eccentric characters, including the apple-picker Herb Fowler who, whenever someone mentions anything close to sex, uses the opportunity to fling a condom at the chest of any young man in the room.

While I was compiling material for this summer’s DIY literature course, “The American Dream in the 20th Century American Novel”, I figured it was about time I read this classic that, in high school, I spark-noted to pass the reading quiz.

I already knew I liked F. Scott Fitzgerald. His debut novel, This Side of Paradise, about a young college graduate grappling with disillusionment and several failed romances, deeply resonated with me when I was 24 and trying to figure out my life. So, adding The Great Gatsby was a no-brainer, and I’m happy I did.

There was much I loved about this novel, but a few stick out.

The plot was gripping, reading somewhat like a crime novel. And his depictions of the irresponsibility and moral depravity of the moneyed class were thrillingly caustic—all that face-slapping and infidelity and inability to apologize.

But what was most interesting to me was probably Fitzgerald’s image patterns.

For example, there is water in almost every scene. It gives one the feeling of drowning—under wealth, under social pressure, under the promise of the American dream and the need to attain it. And then there is that haunting image of the arms reaching out, a symbol for a desire that’s just out of reach, and always will be.

The story left me more suspicious of my own desires, because if you want the wrong things, you will pay for it. Gatsby sure did.

If The Great Gatsby explored one of the many uglier aspects of a hyper-materialistic world, Paul Kingsnorth’s Against the Machine analyzes the origins and development of the worldview from which this world arose.

He calls this techno-capitalistic worldview The Machine: left-brained, mechanistic, money-obsessed, tech-optimistic, and dead-set on progress. When I think of the machine, I think of AI data centers, those big, lifeless, loud, humming monstrosities sitting where forests once did.

I had gifted this book to my father for his birthday. He spoke so highly of it that I had to read it for myself. Now, whenever there’s some bad news in the world, one of us is bound to look off into the distance and say, ominously, “The machine.”

When my client told me last week that they were replacing my position and the entire writing team with an AI content engine, the machine felt like it was breathing its cold metallic breath down my neck.

There is something deeply unsettling about Kingsnorth’s idea that we’ve ushered in a force called The Machine, which is uprooting people from their unique local cultures and forcing them into mass culture so they can serve the machines’ causes: mainly technological innovation and profit.

When he claims that this Machine culture is also making us less human, since, again, reading poetry or walking in the woods is adversarial to profit-maximization, the book really made me want to throw away my smartphone and go live on a farm.

And then I read this…

I read this satirical “be careful what you wish for” narrative about a tradwife influencer because my mom recommended it to my wife, and my wife said her favorite part of the novel was the period at the end.

It was also getting a lot of buzz online, hate and love, so I had an urge to figure out why it was creating such intense reactions.

The premise of Yesteryear is high concept: a tradwife influencer wakes up in the 19th century and now must actually live the traditional lifestyle she was pretending to live online. The driving questions are where is she, who put her there, and will she get out? I was certainly eager to find those answers out.

After reading, I can see now why it drew such hostility from some readers.

First, its characters are basically all detestable; most readers want to read novels where they can, you know, root for someone. Most readers hate the protagonist, Natalie, a holier-than-thou type.

But reading it as someone who makes a living writing online, I actually found myself feeling bad for this counterculture influencer. She struck me as an extreme example of what would happen if you fell prey to audience capture, doing everything you can to be the person your viewers want you to be. Overall, I found this exploration of toxic social media to be the most interesting part of the novel.

Second, it’s a political book, certainly left-leaning, that steps on culture war hot coals like the manosphere, the expectations of motherhood, and the idea that the past was better than the present (which is true in some ways, wrong in others—nuance baby!)

Third, as a satire, it has received criticism for portraying traditional Christian marriage inaccurately. Some say Burke doesn’t understand the sub-culture she’s making fun of—a sin of satire. Others say its satire was just too heavy-handed.

I know too little about the tradwife landscape or the history of satire to properly weigh in on these debates about its merits and shortcomings; maybe you have something to say in the comments?

Again, what I liked most was her exploration of the dark sides of social media, particularly the challenges of a Kardashian-style monetization of the family. If you want to see what all the hubbub online is about, read the novel.

I hope this article helped you find some books you want to read (or burn!).

Quick reminder:

Later this week, I’m releasing a 10,000+ word ultimate guide teaching everything I’ve learned about teaching yourself new skills and mastering a craft.

Looking forward to shipping it.

Happy studying,

Sam