My Top Ten Favorite Books of 2017

The end of the year is here again and time to look back at my year in books, specifically my favorite books of 2017. I chose these books based on if I would read from the author again and of course, how much I liked the book and how often I think about them. In no particular order, here are my top ten favorite books that I read in 2017.

Crooked Kingdom by Leigh Bardugo
Shelter by Jung Yun
The Book Thief by Markus Zusak
The Storied Life of A. J. Fikry by Gabrielle Zevin
Shopgirl by Steve Martin
Room by Emma Donoghue
Kitchen by Banana Yoshimoto
Coraline by Neil Gaiman
Matilda by Roald Dahl
Fullmetal Alchemist, Vol. 1 by Hiromu Arakawa

If you are a stats nerd, here are some of my stats of my reading year.

The number of books read in 2017 (as of writing this post): 75 books. My most read books in one year ever! Having said that, I think in 2018 I would like to read less books and read each book slower.

The number of pages read: 17,787 pages

Year most read from: 2014

Oldest book read: Rikki-Tikki-Tavi by Rudyard Kipling, first published in 1894.

Most read genre: Adult Fiction

Least books read in a month: May. I read only one book, The Book Thief by Markus Zusak

Most books read in a month: August & October. Thirteen books read in each month.

Longest book read: The Goldfinch by Donna Tartt

Shorted book read: The Velveteen Rabbit by Margery Williams Bianco

What were some of your favorite books of 2017?

Thank you for visiting my blog and Merry Christmas!
Nora

My favorite passage from The Goldfinch

Recently I finished reading The Goldfinch by Donna Tartt. I enjoyed reading it and especially the following passage. I can relate it to it in so many ways and Tartt was able to put into words what I am going through as well as what my thoughts are about this world. This passage is why I love reading books and someday the reason why I write, books or other things.

“But depression wasn’t the word. This was a plunging sorrow and revulsion far beyond the personal: a sick, drenching nausea at all humanity and human endeavor from the dawn of time. The writing loathsomeness of the biological disorder. Old age, sickness, death. No escape for anyone. Even the beautiful ones were like soft fruit about to spoil. And yet somehow people still kept fucking and breeding and popping out new fodder for the grave, producing more and more new beings to suffer like this was some kind of redemptive, or good, or even somehow morally admirable thing: dragging more innocent creatures into the lose-lose game. Squirming babies and plodding, complacent, hormone-drugged moms. Oh, isn’t he cute? Awww. Kids shouting and skidding in the playground with no idea what future Hells awaited them: boring jobs and ruinous mortgages and bad marriages and hair loss and hip replacements and lonely cups of coffee in an empty house and a colostomy bag at the hospital. Most people seemed satisfied with the thin decorative glaze and the artful stage lighting that, sometimes, made the bedrock atrocity of the human predicament look somewhat mysterious or less abhorrent. People gambled and golfed and planted gardens and traded stocks and had sex and bought new cars and practiced yoga and worked and prayed and redecorated their homes and got worked up over the news and fussed over their children and gossiped about their neighbors and poured over restaurant review and founded charitable organizations and supported political candidates and attended the U.S. Open and dined and travelled and distracted themselves with all kinds of gadgets and devices, flooding themselves incessantly with information and texts and communications and entertainment from every direction to try to make themselves forget it: where we were, what we were. It was rotten top to bottom. Putting your time in at the office; dutifully spawning your two point five; smiling politely at you retirement party; then chewing on your bedsheet and choking on your canned peaches at the nursing home. It was better never to have been born – never to have wanted anything, never to have hoped for anything.”

Page 476-477
The Goldfinch by Donna Tartt