I spent a couple hours earlier this week and compiled a list of the one hundred fiction books I’d like to read before I turn forty. Some are books I’ve already read once, some are books that hang out on those “books to read before you die” lists, and some are books we’ve had kicking around the house that I need to read someday soon anyhow. Generally it is a mishmash of titles, and I won’t bore you with the full list — not yet — though I plan on writing a quick review of each here.

The first title I picked up this weekend was “The Futurological Congress: From the Memoirs of Ijon Tichy” by Stanislaw Lem. It had been sitting on my shelf for a couple months, begging for a read. And why not? Between the title and the cover, I was fairly certain there was something interesting inside. My quick review follows…

Think philosophical inspiration for the Matrix. Think a complex, twisting narrative that evokes hints of the depth of confusion likely worn by the protagonist. Think Plato’s Cave. Though a bit dated, the book follows the first-person narrative of Ijon Tichy as he descends through multiple layers of psychotropic-induced hallucinations that take him further and further in an ouroboros of reality and perception, all hung on a Malthusian backdrop of near-future population control. Mind-numbingly complex and surreal. And it’s only a hundred and fifty pages long to boot.