Yesterday, my English asked me for some graphic book titles she could use in a game of Pictionary for the 9th graders and I had the epiphany that there are so so so many books whose names elicit the weirdest of images and sensations in me. Here I have tried to isolate the names of the books, from their contents, from my opinions of them, from their blurbs, from their covers and everything else that makes up the world around a book, and what they represent to me with pictures. It was a cool and fun exercise, and I hope you have as fun going through the gallery as I did creating it. Besides the pictures, gif’s and other modes of graphic, there are also small a few stories and explanations behind my choices.
Infinite Jest by David Foster Wallace
For this hugest of books that I never finished(because it’s so looooooooong), the titles gets me a pseudo-philosophical. I know I’m going to hate myself after writing this down but- what is life but infinite jest?[Please don’t laugh at me.] And same goes for fantasy because it’s simply a more colorful illustration of life.
Too many conflicting emotional interests are involved for life ever to be wholly acceptable, and possibly it is the work of the storyteller to rearrange things so that they conform to this end. In any case, in talking about the past we lie with every breath we draw.~ William Maxwell
When You Reach Me by Rebecca Stead
Now this is very obvious. I bet the rabbit was sending cokcy metal vibes to the tortoise, going all I’ll get up When You Reach Me, hee hee! As if! in the snidest of tones possible, when s/he lay down and the audience(ie, you and me) started booing at her/him. Idiot rabbit, beautiful book.
Gone, Gone, Gone by Hannah Moskowitz
The title of this novel makes me very sad, and reminds me of each and all things anyone has ever lost. And frankly, I think the cover of the book itself is the closest I could ever get.
Alternatively, it’s also reminiscent of the nursery rhyme that never was congruent with my feelings(I LOVE rains).
Rain, rain, go away
Come again another day
Little Johnny wants to play.
The God of Small Things by Arundhati Roy
Justaway- the king of toys, and what are small things but toys for the creative?
Urban Dictionary defines it is An instrument of feudal terrorism disguised as a toy to fool the less intellectual. The less intellectual, pearl-clutchers condemned this book for its ‘unrestrained descriptions of sexuality.’ (This was bit of cheating but…) Draw your own conclusions.
The Heart is a Lonely Hunter by Carson McCullers
First of all, what an amazing title! This one particularly evokes so many feels in me, so tangled and somehow miscible all of them, it was hard to pick one picture but like once before, I’m going with a photo of Sylvia Plath. The funny thing is I’ve never read a Sylvia Plath book or this one, but it is what it is.
A Tangle of Knots by Lisa Graff
Me, I have this personal grudge against combs in general. I don’t like combing or brushing my hair and for most of my life these days, it’s a mess. When I first read the title of this book, that’s what I was reminded of- a nest of unruly, uncombed, tangled hair. And well, the second picture looks like a screaming girl with long hair until you look too closely, there you have it- HAIR. Because if you haven’t noticed in cartoons, the hair always goes from princess-curled to electric-shock straight in two seconds flat whenever a bratty girl screams at high pitch.
One Whole and Perfect Day by Judith Clarke
I’ve always had this fantasy that a whole and perfect day could be encapsulated by a balloon, preferably not green or orange. That one would be so light, so happy they could just go on and float amongst the clouds and catch some of the fluffy white stuff, and not get drenched. It’s also perfect for my cynical side because a whole and perfect day, if such a thing ever occurred, would end in a gloomy rain, not the kind one can enjoy, and that’s what happens to balloons that go out into the realm of white water. Such is life .
Pride and Prejudice by Jane Austen
A Corner of White by Jaclyn Moriarty
At the end of a rainbow, I don’t expect a pot of gold, but maybe a slice of pure white cheese? The phrase a corner of white put it into my head to look for the white hidden on the edges of a rainbow, and so a rainbow for a corner it is. I hope I find my corner of white, because it’s just depressing that all these colors diverge and there’s not a hint of a time when they together were a straight beam of light.
Tell the Wolves I’m Home by Carol Rifka Brunt
It was the most difficult, and I’m cheating, and there’s no maybe about it.
I loved looking for pictures for this book, although in the end I failed. You can’t imagine how beautiful it was going again through my memories and random quotes of Brunt’s debut novel, and so at this point I’m concluding the post and have a good whatever’s-left-of-the day.