11 Books Every Man Should Read (@mantalks) Novels & Stories

Yet within the depths of her eyes was a light of mischievousness that shone briefly before disappearing. Of course she knew why Mane was hesitating. Mane had a healthy reading habit. Every day he tasked himself to read a few books. He read everything: history, social and biological sciences, and studied several different arts. To make sure that he was as unbiased in his reading options as possible, he didn’t pick the books consciously. He picked different books from different sections of the library without necessarily knowing what he had picked. He only screened each book after returning to his room. And Sunflower had come to known this.

So maybe Jim lived in a tiny place because he was a single guy, and he saw no point in wasting money on a larger apartment. Anyway, from the looks of it, the man spent every penny he had on books. They were jammed onto a couple of cheap bookshelves, and piled high on every available surface. God, he even had books on his kitchen counters and neatly lined up under his bedroom window. She peeked at a few of the titles, and was amused to see the range of topics: mystery, action, contemporary literature, some horror. She even spotted a few military romance books, and she grinned at that. Maybe he’s reliving his days as a Ranger, reading about bad-ass military heroes saving damsels-in-distress in

I need to take time. I remember the small room I entered last time. I slowly opened the door and turned on the lampshade. The books on the table were still scattered. I tried to look and read each one of them. These are all interesting books. Into the Wild by Jon Krakauer, The Prince by Niccolo Machiavelli, The Great Gatsby by F. Scott Fitzgerald, and a lot more. I tried to find something that might help me, but I found nothing.

I said wondering when daddy became this boring or Annie might have rubbed off on him. Annie hardly read these kinds of books. “Oh, darling, I've been too focused on human psychology these days and guess what I figured?” He asked genuinely excited, but kept his eyes glued to the words written on the pages of the book. “What?” “I figured books are the only things that have true meaning and hold both truth and lies, life and death… happiness and misery -” he glanced up from his book and at me, before turning back to them. “- A man who reads can rule by learning the art of manipulation,” he said, his smile wicked and wanton.

Adam glanced back down at the page, a faint smirk returning. “Man handled it though,” he murmured. “Didn’t panic, didn’t fumble it… just stayed in it.” He closed the book halfway again, shaking his head with a quiet chuckle. “Still… that’s not for everybody,” he added. “Takes a certain kind of mindset to even step into something like that.” He looked at the cover for a second, then back at the pages. “This book really doesn’t miss,” he said under his breath. Then, without hesitation— He turned the page.

I can’t get invested in any way, especially not emotionally. “B-books,” I stammer. “It would be a terrible thing to have to do, to narrow it down to one, especially for a book lover like me Never ask a book lover what their favorite book is. You’ll be here eight hours later, listening to us going off on tangent after tangent, discussing the merits of just about every book that has ever been published since the dawn of time.” Mike laughs, a clear, deep, manly sound that is like a deep brook, and I’m the one diving in, in search of the bottom.

Except for Jack London, who they made us read at Moon Lake school, I’ve never heard of these guys. I have no idea why we’re talking about books, but it’s something to think about besides our ugly past and being poisoned and panic attacks, so I grab on with both hands. “What did he write?” “Who? Dumas?” “Sure.” “Uh. The Three Musketeers. The Count of Monte Cristo. The Man in the Iron Mask.” “What’s it about?” “The Man in the Iron Mask?” “Yeah.” I don’t care. I can just breathe better when he’s talking. His voice is nice. Deep and gruff and rumbly and not scared.

People moved around them, their faces aglow with purpose and connection. Nathan observed a young man seated at a nearby bench, engrossed in a book. The title was discernible from where he stood - "Mastering Mental Resilience." Nathan exchanged a knowing smile with Miranda. They had distributed copies of the book during their event. It was a compilation of stories, experiences, and practical advice on mental wellness, created by individuals from their community center.

“Oh, Nate. Remind me to educate you on the joys of a show called Firefly. It’s old, but fun.” “And it involves man parts?” I was still confused. I don’t think I’ll ever get the hang of the language shared by these three. It seems to be equal parts sarcasm and quotes from random books and shows. At the beginning of summer, I listened to an entire rant about men in classical literature.

"It helps me think. Or not think, depending on what I need." "What kind of books?" "Everything. History. Philosophy. Fiction. Biographies. I'm not picky." I pull out a worn paperback. Look at the cover. "The Count of Monte Cristo?" "One of my favorites. Read it at least five times." "Really? The mafia boss likes classic literature?" He smiles. "The mafia boss is full of surprises." We settle on the couch. Not too close. But not distant either. The fire crackles softly. "So why couldn't you sleep?" Ocean asks.