I found a childhood notebook from when I was around twelve that listed 100 books, which gave me a huge starting point.

Beyond that, books were my friends, so of course I remembered many of them. They gave me endless entertainment, respected my boundaries, and educated me in ways that helped me become a better person.

Each book is usually tied to a memory, place, or period of my life.

I remember carrying the hardback library edition of Stiff—the one with the cadaver feet—into a science classroom at the new Harrow campus. I remember taking Special Topics in Calamity Physics to a family reunion, where I sat in a corner reading while everyone else shared stories and had fun. I didn’t know how to connect; I felt as though I had no stories of my own to tell.

I know I read Special Topics in Calamity Physics at twelve because it was published when I was twelve, and those family reunions ended that same year, after my grandparents passed away.

I also realized that I often read books soon after they were published. Whenever I visited a bookstore, I usually chose books that had just arrived on the shelves. I didn’t recognize this pattern at the time, but publication dates now provide another useful clue. When I cannot determine an exact age, I use a range rather than pretend to know.

Whenever possible. I tried to match each book to the edition I remember, but some covers are no longer available online, and I no longer own every physical copy.

I mostly read narrative nonfiction now. Around fifteen, I turned sharply away from fiction and toward nonfiction. Why read fiction when I could learn history or science through a true story?

I still went on brief fiction binges when an author or style felt exceptional. I read all of Amy Tan’s books at sixteen and briefly became obsessed with fiction by Japanese authors, but I largely swore off conventional mass-market fiction. Now, I barely pick up fiction at all.

That is why there is still a lot of fiction in 14–18 — The Shift Toward Ideas. The shelf is less complete when it comes to science: I remember reading many books about the history of science and neuroscience—my two favorite subjects—but I can no longer recall many of their titles because I no longer own the books.

The fiction I loved usually did something different: the recipes woven through Laura Esquivel’s Like Water for Chocolate, the way Junot Díaz interjects Spanish words into the English narration of The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao, or the unusual structure of Jennifer Egan’s A Visit from the Goon Squad.

Books vivid enough that I can imagine myself inside them—transported to the time and place in which they are set, whether real or imagined. I love authors with enough command of their craft to make a world feel inhabited.

George Orwell’s Down and Out in Paris and London, Helen Zia’s Last Boat Out of Shanghai, and Erik Larson’s The Devil in the White City—which I still have to finish—are good examples.

A different kind of book stays with me because it lets me enter someone’s private world. I am drawn to deeply personal books in which the author is honest about their quirks, flaws, and contradictions. A book can take me somewhere that travelling cannot: inside another person’s mind.

I find that intimacy in Nobody’s Girl by Virginia Roberts Giuffre with Amy Wallace, Impossible People by Julia Wertz, and Half Broke Horses by Jeannette Walls.

I felt—and still feel—intensely bored without mental stimulation. Since I did not socialize much, books provided all the dopamine. Normal consciousness felt a little boring. Shrugs.

Every time I understood something new, I began to see things I had not been able to see before. The picture of the world came slightly more into focus—and, without the knowledge a book had given me, I would never have realized that it had been blurry.

I was determined to read until I understood everything and could see the world exactly as it is. I now call that perceptual resolution.

I was also curious about why we are here, why we are born, and what the meaning of life is.

Yes. When you read a book, you don’t just travel to another place; you can also enter another time and another consciousness. To me, that is far more exciting than sightseeing at tourist landmarks and having brief, surface-level conversations with locals.

No. I wish I had kept a notebook documenting every book I read from the time I learned to read at four years old, but I didn’t.

I have tried to remember them all, and I still visit bookstores to see whether a title or cover unlocks a forgotten memory. I think I have come quite close, though.

Because this is a record of my reading life, not simply a list of books I completed. I read substantial portions of some books, so they are still worth documenting—and I still learned from them. Although I didn’t finish Caravaggio, I read enough to remember a great deal about his life. It was fascinating: he was both an artist and a murderer.

Not finishing a book does not necessarily mean I disliked it. Sometimes I enjoyed a book but became sidetracked by my many other interests. When I was younger, I sometimes found it difficult to read long books. Finishing one meant continually making time to return to it over many days—not allowing day-to-day demands to consume all my time, but protecting some of it to nourish my mind. Now that I am older, more organized, and better able to focus, I can return to those books.

They remain on my shelf as part of the record, and I clearly label them Started or Unfinished rather than pretending I read the whole book. When I eventually finish one, I can update its status to Read—while visitors can still see that I first began it years earlier, sometimes a decade before.

Must Read is the highest and most selective label. I mean it literally: I implore everyone to read every book on this list. Each one teaches something essential about yourself, other people, or the world—something that could change how you understand your life and help you live it better. Every Must Read is naturally also a favorite, but I display only the Must Read label.

Favorite means the book did something distinctive and stood out from an ordinary recommendation. I loved it, felt especially attached to it, or formed a strong connection with its author, voice, or world. It is special to me, even if I would not insist that everyone read it.

Recommended means the author did a good job and the book offers genuine value. If its subject interests you, I think it is worth your time—but I did not connect with it strongly enough to call it a Favorite or consider it essential.

A book without one of these labels is documented, but not endorsed. I may have disliked it, found it unremarkable, or simply not considered it worth recommending.