All the Books I Burned in 2025
And how well they burned.
1. Pride and Prejudice by Jane Austen (1813): 0/10
This book refused to burn even in an industrial cremation tank.
2. The Babysitter at Rest by Jen George (2016): 17/10
This book was already on fire when I picked it up at the library. The librarian passed it to me using cast iron fireplace tongs and said, thank Jesus, get this book out of here.
3. Whereabouts by Jhumpa Lahiri (2018): 5/10
This book burned exactly as one would expect a book to burn.
4. Leaving the Atocha Station by Ben Lerner (2011): NA/10
The hideous front and back covers of this book ignited immediately, leaving the main contents unscathed. The writing was exquisite and, in many ways, reflects the tone I strive after in my fiction but have yet to achieve. I was thus unable to burn it any further, as it would feel vindictive.
5. My Year of Rest and Relaxation by Ottessa Moshfegh (2018): 3/10
This book was so disinterested in itself that the fire would fizzle out every 2-3 pages. It kept calling the fire “cringe” and mocking the solemnity of my book burning procession. It took a long time to burn.
6. Killing Commendatore by Haruki Murakami (2017): NA/10
I started burning this book but then stamped out the fire and threw it in Lake Ontario because I didn’t even care.
7. Stoner by John Edward Williams (1965): 8/10
This book was eager to be incinerated from the annals of history, to rapidly return to the oblivion from which it came. A modest sigh escaped from the spine as it popped—presumably in relief for never having to be the source material for another Substack post. The flame was lessened briefly by my tears during Stoner’s glorious affair with Katherine, and for the last few pages.
8. We Have Never Been Woke: The Cultural Contradictions of a New Elite by Musa al-Gharbi (2024): NA/10
Naturally, the only book I read from our current decade was written by, and for, a self-hating liberal. This book would not take a flame unless it was sourced from the burning of my own flesh or the humanities department of an elite college with the faculty trapped inside. I was unwilling to do this so the book went unburned.
9. The Driftless Area by Tom Drury (2006): 9/10
This book burned swiftly and was then reincarnated as Underworld by Don DeLillo.
10. Fat City by Leonard Gardner (1969): 10/10
The pages were pre-coated with bacon grease and muscatel; the book burned hot and bright, the fire becoming the talk of the town for thirty seconds before disintegrating into a thimble of flaky ash. It was never thought of or mentioned again.
11. A Manual for Cleaning Women: Selected Stories by Lucia Berlin (2015): 4/10
This book’s burn profile was inconsistent. It ravaged, waned, stopped entirely; when I approached again with the lighter it self-ignited. And then repeat. At some points it seemed to un-burn, if that’s even possible. All the while, I laughed, cried, loved, marveled. A roller-coaster of a burn.
12. My Struggle: Book One by Karl Ove Knausgård (2009): -∞/10
This book continued writing itself as it burned, with page upon new page describing the experience of being burned in plain, yet painstaking detail. It has never quite been able to consume itself, and is presently keeping my feet warm beneath my desk.
13. Against Interpretation by Susan Sontag (1966): 2/10
The essays on camp, Camus, and the title essay, burned steady and strong. I was too dumb or distracted to figure out how to light the others on fire, and frequently fell asleep while trying to do so.
14. What We Talk About When We Talk About Love by Raymond Carver (1981): 8/10
This was a re-burn. I suspect, when I first “burned” it in college, that it was entirely performative—that I was trying to impress someone or other with the suggestion that I burn terse literary fiction. I’m not sure why I thought this would get me laid in an engineering program at a fratty university. This time around, the burn was authentic, and well-oxygenated from the space between Carver’s sentences.
15. My Brilliant Friend by Elena Ferrante (2011): Magic/10
This burn summoned a floating Blueberrinni Octopussinni who recited an AI slop riddle that, according to B.O., reveals the true identity of Elena Ferrante:
I am a union of craft and motion.
My first half sits hunched in a dim shop, squinting at seams, my fingers dancing. I take what is shapeless and make it conform. In London, I once dressed kings.
My second half is the hawk’s descent—silent, sudden, over before you blink. It’s the quality a river lacks but a wildfire possesses. It takes money from A to B—often internationally.
~~~
Thanks for reading about my year in book burning. It was a good year of burning. Most of the books were excellent. If you’d like more details and further context on their burn profiles, or wish to dispute my reportage based on your own burn experiences, please don’t hesitate to DM or email.
Sincerely,
Rishi
