Books I Revisit

Some books I have read once and respected, while others I return to repeatedly.

The key difference isn't always how well-written they are. Many great books don't compel a reread; they do their job, leave an impression, and stay put. Conversely, some books seem to wait. They don't end with the last page; instead, they linger in the mind, quietly changing my perspective over time.

These are some of the books that are important to me.

My top books might provide pleasure, comfort, or jog a specific moment in my life. However, the books I repeatedly return to are a different matter. They influence my thinking and change the way I observe and question explanations.

I often return to Orwell. Works such as "Down and Out in Paris and London" and "The Road to Wigan Pier," along with essays like "Shooting an Elephant," showcase a mind that confronts discomfort directly. Orwell was at his most powerful when sceptical of slogans, recognising that language can both reveal and conceal truth. This remains important to me.

Success doesn't always prove wisdom, and failure doesn't always indicate foolishness. What seems obvious after the fact might have been impossible to judge at the moment. A seemingly fortunate life may hide unspoken advantages, while a life deemed unlucky might have been influenced by unseen causes.

Kahneman’s "Thinking, Fast and Slow" remains a consistently valuable book. It highlights common mistakes people make in everyday life, especially when they believe they are acting rationally. Taleb’s "Fooled by Randomness" also falls into this category. While not agreeing with every point, it raises a crucial question: how often do people mistake randomness, risk, timing, and hidden advantage for their own brilliance?

This question is closely related to the core theme of "The Luck Illusion."

I often revisit writers who pay attention to everyday life. Many important things are discovered in a variety of ordinary places, such as a kitchen, a supermarket, the beach, and small acts of kindness or irritation inspire ideas to roll in. A writer who finds meaning in the ordinary is often more valuable than one who relies on spectacle.

Laurie Lee’s "Cider with Rosie" has this quality, and so does "As I Walked Out One Midsummer Morning." Lee masterfully captures the feeling of walking, weather, strangers, hunger, music, youth, memory, and hints of dignity in small places. His writing reminds us that observation is an active process—truly noticing involves thinking. This insight has had a greater impact on my own writing than I originally recognised.

Living in Bulgaria also influences the kind of books I can relate to. Travel writing becomes more engaging when it's not just about the scenery. The most compelling travel books are encounters with difference, misunderstandings, hospitality, embarrassment, and challenging assumptions made by travellers.

Patrick Leigh Fermor’s books, "A Time of Gifts" and "Between the Woods and the Water," exemplify this tradition. He could explore new places with genuine curiosity rather than arrogance. I appreciate that quality. A foreign country isn't meant to reinforce a visitor’s preconceptions; it operates with its own rhythm, humour, and customs, which can make outsiders feel both welcomed and naive. Understanding this is essential for any expatriate writer.

Rebecca West’s "Black Lamb and Grey Falcon" is a work to consider when thinking about my adopted region, the Balkans. Even though it’s quite extensive and opinionated, it is not ideal as a strict authority. It needs a careful approach rather than a simplistic agreement. A book with such depth can, however, be beneficial.

I prefer books that show how people react under pressure. One example is John Steinbeck’s "The Grapes of Wrath," which shows how external influences like poverty, banks, weather, work, migration, pride, and hunger shape individual lives. It teaches us that understanding a person requires considering their circumstances. That idea has always stayed with me.

Albert Camus’ "The Myth of Sisyphus" and "The Outsider" are also on my list, as they strip comfort away. Camus asks what remains when easy meaning is removed. That type of question can be hard but honest. Some books are useful because they do not reassure the reader too early.

Having never been interested in language that exists solely to show off, I shun away from these books. Style matters, but not as decoration where it carries and supports the thoughts clearly. It allows humour, sadness and anger to be coloured, much more absorbing.

Orwell conveyed this idea, and Steinbeck approached it differently. Graham Greene also explored it in works like "The Quiet American" and "The Power and the Glory," where moral certainty is seldom easy to hold onto. Greene understood human vulnerability, compromise, and the disconnect between people's self-explanations and their actions. I find that gap fascinating.

I appreciate books that challenge me honestly, even if they are uncomfortable. They prompt me to reconsider accepted ideas, making me pause and reflect on statements that may be true but uncomfortable. A helpful book isn't always something you have to agree with; its worth may be in the resistance it provokes. This is one reason rereading is important: it gives the reader a chance for their perspective to evolve.

Book reading during teenage years isn’t the same as when read at thirty, middle age, or later. The words remain the same, but the experience changes. A sentence that once seemed to fly the flag may later appear at half mast, and vice versa. Some books seem shorter when revisited later, while others reveal a deeper meaning with age. These particular books that expand in meaning are the ones worth holding onto.

For me, reading has always been closely linked with writing. It helps me to identify what works and what to avoid. It highlights where straightforward phrases are effective. It also shows when an argument becomes weaker and demonstrates the value of leaving some things unsaid.

The books I revisit have fostered habits of mindful thinking. They've increased my scepticism towards simple conclusions and shown me that human lives are rarely determined by just one cause, decision, or mistake.

This influence clearly shows in my work, especially in "The Luck Illusion." The book evolved by observing how people talk about outcomes, how frequently they mention "luck," and how much that word can obscure.