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The last two works of lit I’ve read include these authors. I recently finished Fierce Invalids Home from Hot Climates by Tom Robbins and I currently have Atlas Shrugged by Ayn Rand on hold. It’s an epic novel and not as light as Robbins’ adventures.

I learned last summer, when I read Crime and Punishment by Dostoevsky, that the books I choose to digest have a direct impact on my general attitude towards life. Being a recent college grad, I felt some parallels between Raskolnikov and myself, both of us being poor students and close in age. The existential Russian literature just gave me a depressed outlook on life. After finishing it—I like to finish what I start—I decided that I wouldn’t be reading anymore depressing literature.

Tom Robbins, on the other hand, doesn’t take life as seriously. He’d agree with Dostoevsky that the house is on fire and we’re looking out the second story window, but Robbins is of the opinion that we’ve got the best damn view in the house. His “syrup of wahoo” gives me a zest for life and an appreciation for all of its absurdities.

Ayn Rand is of yet another school of thought. I don’t know that she’d agree that the house is on fire, but if it was, she’d certainly try to stop it. Her rebellious rebuttal of popular literary themes of her day is certainly quite refreshing; however, I do think that her stance is a little extreme. I think it’s impossible for me to become a railroad tycoon but Rand inspires me to shrug my what-can-you-do? attitude and to acheive my goals.

Reading all this literature also makes me question the value of literature itself. As I read Atlas Shrugged it makes me want to throw the book down and do something productive (which doesn’t include reading non-fictional literature). I mean, I’m never going to become a railroad tycoon by reading books all day. But then, who’s to say becoming a railroad tycoon is the purpose of life? I suppose the purpose of literature is to find this out and until I find a suitable answer, I’ll continue reading.