Availle
31 books read for LibriVox
- You get a playful little book in which absurd Victorian episodes lead into mathematical puzzles called “Knots,” with answers tucked in afterward. It’s more puzzle collection than story, and the charm depends on enjoying wordplay, diagrams, and teasing your way through problems rather than following a sustained plot.
- These two aren't young lovers, they're middle-aged, vain, magnificent messes who keep wrecking empires over each other, and you half want to shake them. Stay for Enobarbus, the dry-eyed friend whose barge speech about Cleopatra is worth the whole play.
- You get a fiercely strange tragedy about pride, hunger, and the impossibility of speaking to people you despise. Coriolanus is magnificent and maddening, while Volumnia’s hard, hungry love gives the play its deepest ache; the Roman politics can feel blunt, but the language cuts.
- Chichikov rides around buying up dead serfs from provincial landowners, and every one of them (dreamy Manilov, miserly Plyushkin) is funnier and sadder than the last. It's absurd, digressive, and unfinished, which somehow suits it.
- Read Noli Me Tangere first, then come to this angrier, darker sequel. Watching the jeweler Simoun quietly seed a revolution while everyone fawns over him is chilling, and Rizal's fury at colonial rot burns through every page.
- Joyce's one play, and it's all talk, three people circling the question of whether love can survive total freedom, with Richard almost daring his partner Bertha toward another man. Slow and cerebral in the Ibsen mold, but if you like watching jealousy dissected honestly, it stings.
- Faust: Der Tragödie erster Teil Deutsch
- Fair warning, this one is bleak: Mrs. Alving has spent years protecting her dead husband's reputation, and you watch the cost of that lie come due in a single day. Short, tense, and quietly furious about respectability.
- A Hamilton play a century before the musical: George Arliss's stage vehicle about the funding fight and the Reynolds blackmail, built for strong curtain lines. Creaky in places, brisk in most, and fascinating as what 1917 wanted its founders to be.
- You get political persuasion at close range: Brutus speaks as if reason can keep a republic clean, while Cassius understands how fear and resentment move people. The funeral speeches are thrilling to read aloud, but the play leaves you with uneasy questions about honor, crowds, and unintended consequences.
- You watch Medea turn her intelligence and rhetorical skill against a city that has already decided she is disposable. The Nurse’s fearful opening and the Chorus’s uneasy sympathy make the play feel intimate, tense, and morally uncomfortable, not like a tidy revenge story.
- You get a sharp, sometimes openly didactic look at colonial Philippines through Crisóstomo Ibarra, Maria Clara, and the quietly formidable Elias. It takes its time, but the mix of social satire, tenderness, and mounting anger makes the book feel far more human than its political purpose suggests.
- Iago talks to you directly, and the awful thing is you almost enjoy his company while he wrecks a good man's life over a handkerchief and some careful hints. It's painful in the way only watching preventable disaster is, so save it for when you can take that.
- Babbage is cranky, brilliant, and completely unable to stay on topic, so you get the Analytical Engine one chapter and a war on London's organ grinders the next. If you enjoy an eccentric Victorian mind wandering wherever it pleases, this is good company; skip it if you want tidy memoir.
- Poe's poems are best read aloud at night, when the hypnotic drumbeat of The Raven and the sad chime of Annabel Lee can really work on you. It's a small body of work, moody and musical, and if gothic melancholy isn't your thing, skip it.
- Richard talks straight to you from the first speech, so you end up half rooting for a murderer and enjoying it, especially when he woos Anne over her father-in-law's coffin. If you like villains who make you complicit, this moves fast and never apologizes.
- You get a wonderfully playable comedy here, with Tony Lumpkin stirring up trouble and Kate Hardcastle disguising herself as a barmaid to find out what Marlow is really like. The plotting is deliberately tangled and theatrical, but the dialogue stays bright, mischievous, and surprisingly sharp about shyness and social performance.
- You get absurd political satire, shameless wordplay, and the wonderfully slippery Peisetairus, who talks a flock of birds into imagining a new city in the sky. It’s bawdy, strange, and occasionally more interested in a joke than a tidy plot, but the chorus and wild premise make it unusually vivid on the page.
- You get a filthy, sharply engineered Restoration comedy, with Horner’s fake impotence setting off Pinchwife’s paranoid jealousy and Margery’s blunt country innocence. The sexual politics are ugly in places, but the wordplay and social hypocrisy stay wonderfully alive if you enjoy comedy with teeth.
- The Humbugs of the World non-fictionYes, the great showman himself grousing about frauds, and the irony lands better than you'd expect. He goes after spirit mediums, quack medicines, the Moon Hoax, all in chatty anecdotes, and half the fun is watching him carefully separate his kind of humbug from the cruel kind.
- A vain little nobody blows into a corrupt town, gets mistaken for a government inspector, and just rolls with it, borrowing money from every trembling official in sight. You'll read it in an evening, laugh at Khlestakov's shameless lying, then notice the satire still lands on people you know.
- You'll spend the whole play watching Paula fight for a fresh start she half-knows society won't allow her, and it stings because Pinero refuses to make her a villain or a saint. A short read, quietly brutal, better if you like drawing-room drama with teeth.
- The Social Contract non-fictionYou get a bracing argument about political freedom, especially in Rousseau’s insistence that obeying laws you help make is different from submitting to a ruler. The prose can feel abstract and combative, but his questions about inequality, citizenship, and the general will keep needling you afterward.
- You get why people still quote it once Mephistopheles calmly admits he's in hell right now, standing there. The middle sags into slapstick with popes and horse traders, honestly, but Faustus watching his last hour tick away is worth the whole slim thing.
- Early, slight, and a bit lumpy (the ending will make you yelp), but Launce's monologues to his stone-faced dog Crab are some of the funniest pages Shakespeare wrote, and Julia in disguise carries real ache. Read it if you like watching genius warm up.
- You get a darkly funny, claustrophobic family drama where Gregers Werle’s hunger for absolute truth collides with Hjalmar Ekdal’s comforting self-deceptions. The wild duck in the attic feels oddly central, and the play keeps asking whether honesty heals people or simply gives suffering a cleaner name.
- You get Shakespeare at his strangest here: Leontes’ jealousy makes the early scenes painfully claustrophobic, then Paulina’s fierce intelligence and a sudden pastoral brightness change the air. It’s uneven and openly theatrical, but its movement from damage toward forgiveness stays with you.
- Not much happens, which is the point: three sisters keep saying they'll go to Moscow and you slowly realize they never will. If you can sit with that ache, the Prozorov house, Natasha quietly taking it over room by room, will stay with you for years.
- You’re glad you read it for the strange intimacy of spending a day inside Leopold Bloom’s mind, where errands, advertisements, hunger, and memory keep turning unexpectedly funny and tender. It’s demanding and occasionally maddening, but the jokes, wordplay, and Molly Bloom’s closing monologue reward patience.
- You’ll recognize the ache in Vanya, who has spent his life serving someone else’s work, and in Sonya, quietly carrying on while Astrov dreams of forests and Elena drifts through the room. It’s funny in that painfully human Chekhov way, and its sadness sneaks up on you.