By Tom Robotham

I love lists of favorite things—books, music, foods, places, people—and I’m not alone. There’s something therapeutic about making them. In the process, we’re forced to reflect on our lives—the forces that have shaped them and the things that have given them meaning. This summer, several TReehouse contributors and I indulged ourselves by compiling lists of the 40 Best Albums Since Woodstock. Now, I’ve decided to turn to the 10 Books That Have Changed My Life.

First, some ground rules. We’re not talking favorite books, exactly. If I were assembling such a list, many of the following titles would be on the list. But I’d have to add, Moby Dick, Middlemarch, David Copperfield, The Collected Poems of Ted Hughes, Thomas Merton’s New Seeds of Contemplation and several others. The distinction is subtle but important. As much as I love Moby Dick, I can’t exactly say that it changed my life. The volumes listed below, on the other hand, did do so in very tangible ways. I hope that my brief comments after each title will clarify what I mean by that.

Please take a look—and after you’ve done so, I hope you’ll send your own lists, accompanied by notes of explanation for each title.

Selections from Ralph Waldo Emerson: An Organic Anthology, Stephen Whicher, editor (Riverside). When this text was assigned to me in a course on “American Romanticism” in my sophomore year at college, I had never read a word of Emerson. But it wasn’t long before I was captivated. He seemed to understand me (see “Glad to the Brink of Fear,” below)—my desire to fulfill my own potential, and my sense of God’s immediacy. Thirty years later, he remains my intellectual and spiritual guiding light.

Walden, by Henry David Thoreau (various publishers). I first read Walden along side Emerson in that course on American Romanticism. Since then, I’ve reread it at least a dozen times—and I cannot count how many times I’ve opened it to reread individual passages. It’s always seemed to me that the book has a dual message: Its assertion that the natural world can teach us most of what we need to know about ourselves and the wonders of the universe, and its forceful denunciation of consumerism. It should be required reading for every American.

The Fountainhead, by Ayn Rand (Signet). As Walt Whitman says, I contradict myself; very well, then—I contradict myself. Ayn Rand is about as far removed from Thoreau as The Sound of Music is from the Sex Pistols. No matter. When I read The Fountainhead in high school, I had already been harboring dreams of becoming an architect. The central character—Howard Roark—intensified my desire, so much so that when I would venture into Manhattan and gaze at the skyscrapers I would feel a surge of exhilaration at the thought that I, too, might be capable of designing such magnificent monuments to human genius. I subsequently gave up this dream, but the impact of this book remains important. To this day, I carry with me the desire to build things of beauty—no matter that they are constructions of words rather than bricks.

The Fire Next Time, by James Baldwin (HRW Library). The neighborhood in which I grew up, in Staten Island, NY, was as racist as any town in Mississippi. My father, on the other hand, taught me from an early age that racism was one of the great evils of human history. Caught in the middle of this conflict, I wrestled for years with questions about race relations. When I went to an integrated high school, and was beat up by blacks simply because I was white, I nearly succumbed to the disease of bigotry. Baldwin’s book opened my eyes to the reality of the African-American experience.

Habits of the Heart: Individualism and Commitment in American Life, Robert Bellah, et. al, editors. (University of California). I discovered this book in graduate school while I was working toward a master’s in American Studies. The book—a sociological study based on observations that Alexis de Tocqueville had recorded during his visit to the United States in the 1830s—emphasizes the importance of being part of a community. At the time I was living in Manhattan. I felt at home there—and still do—but I longed for a deeper sense of connection with people and an opportunity to help shape the place where I lived. It was in part because of this book that I moved to Norfolk.

Black Stallion, by Walter Farley (Yearling). While I’ve been a bibliophile for most of my adult life, I wasn’t much of a reader when I was a child. Television and roaming aimlessly through the woods near my house were far more appealing to me. (I suspect I suffered from ADD, although at the time that term was unheard of.) The one exception was Black Stallion. It didn’t hurt that I was introduced to it by my third grade teacher, Miss Kelly, whom I had a tremendous crush on. But it was the story itself that captured my imagination. It reinforced, among other things, my lifelong desire to ride horses, which I have been satisfying in recent years at a wonderful place called Reba Farm Inn, near Bedford, Va. There’s a lot to be said for a book that can stimulate your interest in both reading and the most glorious animals on the planet.

On Press: A Reporter’s Reflections on Journalism, by Tom Wicker (Viking). When I was in high school I was a clueless stoner. When I got to college, I realized that there was a lot more to life than pot and Pink Floyd (not that there’s anything wrong with either of those things.) Among the discoveries I made was the joy of journalism. Eventually I became editor of my college newspaper. When I graduated, in recognition of my newfound interest, my father gave me a copy of Wicker’s book. It inspired me to pursue a career in journalism—a decision I’ve never regretted.

The Portable World Bible, by Robert Ballou (Viking). My copy of this book is very old. It was passed down from my great grandmother to my mother to me. The introduction alone is worth the price of purchase. Nothing I’ve read before or since illuminates so brilliantly the similarities between the world’s major religions. Although I subsequently returned to the Episcopalian faith of my childhood, I continue to adhere to this book’s central message—that the distinctions that divide us are far less important than the common principles that unite us.

The Way of Zen, by Alan Watts (Viking). As I searched in my early 20s for spiritual truths, I discovered Alan Watts. His accessible explanation of Zen Buddhism sparked a lifelong interest in this discipline. I subsequently visited a Zen monastery, began to practice zazen, or sitting meditation, and realized that regardless of one’s religious orientation—or lack of belief—the way of Zen was a path that could potentially lead to immeasurable enrichment. I have been struggling ever since to dwell in the present moment and the activity at hand. I usually fail, at least to some extent. But thanks to Watts, I continue to try.

Jazz Is, by Nat Hentoff (Limelight). Nat Hentoff has been my professional role model for some 35 years. His writings on the First and Fourth Amendments, and on our nation’s schools, have fueled my lifelong commitment to civil liberties and education respectively. But none of his books has affected me more profoundly than this one. I had already begun to explore the world of jazz. Jazz Is lit my mind on fire. Thanks to Hentoff, more than any other individual or single recording, America’s greatest indigenous art form became an essential part of my life.