This is a very difficult and profound question. With fear and trembling, I'll do my best to provide some sort of answer.
Non-FictionGodel, Escher, Bach: An Eternal Golden Braid by Douglas R. Hofstadter.
This is a very difficult book to summarize. The front cover calls it "A metaphorical fugue on mind and machines, in the spirit of Lewis Carroll." The best I can say is that it explores the philosophy of consciousness as examined through self-referential systems. That sounds incredibly dry, but this book is a sheer joy to read. Playful and funny and brilliantly creative, it is also extraordinarily insightful.
Here's a good review of it:
LinkFictionMoby-Dick by Herman Melville.
Not a very original choice, I'm afraid, but it's my favorite of all the "classic" novels that I have read. Some people find it hard to slog through, but I had no problem with it. I love the narrator's endless digressions, and the prose just sings:
QUOTE
Call me Ishmael. Some years ago -- never mind how long precisely -- having little or no money in my purse, and nothing particular to interest me on shore, I thought I would sail about a little and see the watery part of the world. It is a way I have of driving off the spleen, and regulating the circulation. Whenever I find myself growing grim about the mouth; whenever it is a damp, drizzly November in my soul; whenever I find myself involuntarily pausing before coffin warehouses, and bringing up the rear of every funeral I meet; and especially whenever my hypos get such an upper hand of me, that it requires a strong moral principle to prevent me from deliberately stepping into the street, and methodically knocking people's hats off -- then, I account it high time to get to sea as soon as I can. This is my substitute for pistol and ball. With a philosophical flourish Cato throws himself upon his sword; I quietly take to the ship. There is nothing surprising in this. If they but knew it, almost all men in their degree, some time or other, cherish very nearly the same feelings towards the ocean with me.
Poem"The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock" by T. S. Eliot.
It sends chills up and down my spine.
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