What I Talk About When I Talk About Running
by Haruki Murakami



What I Talk About When I Talk About Murakami: a strange Japanese novelist who's now written a memoir about propulsing the ground with greater-than-normal conviction by quickly moving his legs. Uh oh! My spell checker suddenly tells me that "propulsing" is not a word. I'm pretty sure it is, and I probably used it wrong, but, even if it's not, it should be. Roundabout: I want to read this book.

My Life with Che: The Making of a Revolutionary
by Hilda Gadea



Like he did at most things he ever tried, Che failed at marriage, too. That's why some dude named Ilan Stavans can write that "Che Guevara is our Jesus Christ". I'm assuming that means he's an idiot, so when, a few sentences later, he writes that in the book we "come across a Che that is, at once, small and larger-than-life", his humorous pun is an accident. Incidentally, a good title for a Che book: The Red Star of Courage.

Heirloom: Notes from an Accidental Tomato Farmer
by Tim Stark



I wonder if books like these are popular because people still want to believe it's possible to toss away their own 9-5 jobs in the city and settle down successfully performing a romanticized version of work that's "close to the earth". Either that, or it's the eco-trend. Either way, this guy's life seems like it was written by a Hollywood producer in between meetings on a paper napkin in red crayon.

The Man on Mao's Right: From Harvard Yard to Tiananmen Square, My Life Inside China's Foreign Ministry
by Ji Chaozhu



I don't trust politicians, but sometimes they inadvertently tell the truth. Whether that happens in this memoir by a Chinese guy who held posts in both the Chinese government and the UN is hard to say (actually, it's not: the answer is no). But even if you don't learn anything true, at least your heart will be warmed, for this book "recounts the heartfelt struggle of a man who loved two powerful nations that were at odds with each other." How romantic. I wonder which country gets the girl and if they all learn to get along.

Why You Should Read Kafka Before You Waste Your Life
by James Hawes



If you can't read Kafka, you might as well read about Kafka. And you might as well read that "Franz Kafka was a popular and well-connected millionaire’s son who enjoyed good-time girls, brothels, and expensive porn, who landed a highly desirable state job that pulled in at least $90,000 a year in today’s dollars for a six-hour day, who remained a loyal member of Prague’s German-speaking Imperial elite right to the end, and whose work was backed by a powerful literary clique". I think this is fiction but I'm not sure.

The Semi-Invisible Man: A Life of Norman Lewis
by Julian Evans



Norman Lewis was a travel writer. I never heard of him and neither did you. Why? Because no one cares about travel writers, that's why. According to the book, though, he was a damn fine travel writer and "the best 'not famous' writer of his generation." To be fair, it was a weak generation; but I suppose we'll all be hearing about him now that this book is out. Narf.

Jonathan Swift and Popular Culture: Myth, Media, and the Man
by Ann Cline Kelly



Jonathan Swift was awesome. If you didn't know that, you do now. I don't know if this book, about his life and its impact on everything after, is awesome; but I do know a little-known fact about how it was written: in the blood of Irish babies!

Dali & I: The Surreal Story
by Stan Lauryssens



Salvador Dali's art is a trip so I assume he must have led a tripped-out life. This isn't Dali's biography, however, but the biography of the art dealer who sold Dali's paintings and made money off him. Which would make him a drug dealer. Drug dealers are bad, but look cool on TV. Maybe they're cool in print, too.

Gaspipe: Confessions of a Mafia Boss
by Philip Carlo 



Mafia books are all so trashy, and mafia memoirs doubly so. I wouldn't touch one with rubber gloves (I'm classy). But I know how you people are. The more lurid, the more interested you are. So I pander, I pander and a little bit of me dies inside each time. Plus, I do want to know if these guys actually chop of the heads of racehorses and use them as pillows.