Rory Gilmore’s Guide to Reading

My first semester of grad school is officially finished so back to the list!


I had to take a break from Mrs. Dalloway. To be continued.

Up Next: The Children’s Hour by Lillian Hellman in anticipation of watching the movie with Audrey Hepburn and Shirley MacLaine


Then: A Christmas Carol by Charles Dickens (because CHRISTMAS) (someone lost my library’s copy)

and The Kitchen Boy: A Novel of the Last Tsar by Robert Alexander (because ANASTASIA) (can’t find it anywhere…)

Latest update: Just finished The Virgin Suicides by Jeffrey Eugenides (officially one of my new favorites)

Up next: Middlesex by Jeffrey Eugenides (new favorite author alert)


Dreaming on a Busy Street

I’ve been in a book-reading rut lately, so I’ve decided to tackle Rory Gilmore’s Book List, as compiled by Australian writer Patrick Lenton. And Buzzfeed. It was a little alarming to realize I haven’t read some classics, like Alice in Wonderland and Pride and Prejudice. But I do have somewhat of a head-start. Since the list is in alphabetical and not chronological order, I feel okay about skipping around.

First up: The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier & Clay by Michael Chabon

Second: Pride and Prejudice by Jane Austen

Third: In Cold Blood by Truman Capote (slight veer to Breakfast at Tiffany’s first)

Fourth: Franny and Zooey by J.D. Salinger

Fifth: Mrs. Dalloway by Virginia Woolf

  1. 1984 by George Orwell 
  2. Adventures of Huckleberry Finn by Mark Twain
  3. Alice in Wonderland by Lewis Carroll
  4. The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier & Clay by Michael Chabon
  5. An American Tragedy by Theodore Dreiser

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“Song of Myself,” Verse 52

The spotted hawk swoops by and accuses me – he complains of my gab and my loitering.

I too am not a bit tamed—I too am untranslatable;
I sound my barbaric yawp over the roofs of the world.

The last scud of day holds back for me;
It flings my likeness after the rest, and true as any, on the shadow’d wilds;
It coaxes me to the vapor and the dusk.

I depart as air—I shake my white locks at the runaway sun;
I effuse my flesh in eddies, and drift it in lacy jags.

I bequeathe myself to the dirt, to grow from the grass I love;
If you want me again, look for me under your boot-soles.

You will hardly know who I am, or what I mean;
But I shall be good health to you nevertheless,
And filter and fibre your blood.

Failing to fetch me at first, keep encouraged;
Missing me one place, search another;
I stop somewhere, waiting for you.

Walt Whitman