4. The Pastures of Heaven by John Steinbeck

I know I said I would never read Steinbeck again, but I found this “Armed Services Edition,” published in the 40’s for World War II soldiers. It’s a very thin, narrow packet that I suppose was convenient for stuffing in back pockets. I thought it would be an interesting thing to own, and it makes me wonder who previously read it. Anyway, the book is depressing and pretty much enforces the idea that you should never help people and that you should always cry into your mother’s arms. I wouldn’t recommend it to any soldiers.

3. Are You There, God? It’s Me, Margaret by Judy Blume

This was the first time I read this book. I liked it, but if I had read it when I was younger I would’ve loved it. It contains all the elements I looked for in a young adult book: flashy descriptions of New York City, lots of talk about puberty and crushes, a pushy grandmother, religious confusion, and mean best friends. I couldn’t have related to any of the romance stuff, as I had the charisma of a cast iron skillet (I like to think I’ve moved up to a pickle slicer, at least). But that’s why I liked reading about it: it was so far removed from me.

2. The Diary of a Young Girl by Anne Frank

I think I’ve cried a fair amount on the subway, mostly due to books and songs. I’ve seen a lot of people cry on the subway too, so I’m not too ashamed, though I try not to make it a habit. I cried after finishing this book on the E train. I have a hoard of childhood journals, and Frank’s last few entries seemed uncannily familiar. They were the kind of things I’d always write about. I’d always be afraid of being over-sentimental, but then I’d remember no one was reading what I was writing, and then go all out. It was eerie seeing it here. I think everyone with a journal has done the same thing on a regular basis.

1. Lit by Mary Karr

I picked this up because I wanted to know what it was like dating David Foster Wallace. It took up a very slim portion of the book, and from what I garnered, it was funny, exhausting, and volatile. Kind of what I expected. The rest of the book is funny, exhausting, and volatile as well. I envy Karr in the way I envy all poets; I’m jealous of her brain-exploding word choices. But she has a dopey sense of humor, which is endearing. This is also the third book I’ve read this month that involves addiction and psych wards.