I can’t give a simple list of my favorite books. A memorable reading experience arises froma fortuitous alchemy of the stuff of the book and the stuff of the reader’s life. For example, Jane Austen is wonderul to read at any time of life, but she’s best when one is female, teenaged, and virginal. No, girls, I’m not asking you to wait until you’re married, but at least wait until you’ve finished the six novels. Get started now, it won’t take you that long, especially if you’re motivated.

While a youthful summer devoted to Jane Austen would be exceedingly lovely, reading all of Cormac McCarthy’s novels at once could lead to derangement. It’s best to parcel out these fierce books over the space of years—and if you’re an angry young male, wait until you’re at least eighty-five to read them. For the rest of you, take care where and when you read McCarthy. I made the mistake of picking up The Road when I was rushing out the door for a sleep study. By the time the technician came in to tell me to go to sleep, I had reached the baby kabob scene and I was more awake than I’ve ever been in my life.

Pay attention to reading sequence. I find that sharp juxtapositions of style, theme, and setting enhance the reading experience. Moreover, at times a really good, powerful book requires an antidote. To pick on Cormac McCarthy again (not really a good idea), I felt drained after reading No Country for Old Men. I followed it up with Henry James’s Portrait of a Lady, so I could slow down and relax in the knowledge that the tea-sipping and conversation would not be interrupted by a cattle stun gun. Of course, I would imagine that reading these two books in reverse sequence would have been just as satisfying. By the end of Portrait, a stun gun no longer seems like an unreasonable way to end a 500-word paragraph devoted to Madame Merle’s machinations in favor of Gilbert Osmond’s pursuit of Miss Isabel Archer.

After finishing Jules Verne’s Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the Sea, I read Marilynne Robinson’s Gilead. I chose this story of a small-town minister in Iowa not only because it is a transcendently beautiful novel, but also because it doesn’t include any lengthy descriptions of fish.

Sometimes it works well to coordinate the setting of the reading with the setting of the book. If you’re going to read Thomas Mann’s The Magic Mountain, do it during a snowy winter, on your comfiest couch. Wrap yourself up in at least two Snuggies and have a hot toddy by your side. It helps if you’re sick. It doesn’t have to be tuberculosis, a mild respiratory infection will do. When you’re finished the novel and need motivation to get up off that couch, go back to Cormac McCarthy, whose novels teach the valuable lesson: keep moving or get whacked by a stun gun.

If you happen to work for the CIA, as I once did, and you still have to fill out those automated-for-your-convenience, once-a-year, Congressionally-mandated, Expertise forms (do you still have to do that?), and you’re on step 42, and you’re stuck in an error loop so you type in a command that the computer says it doesn’t recognize but you know damn well it knows what that verb is, and you’re itching to call your Congressperson and give him or her what for because you have better things to do—like for example tracking terrorists—then I would suggest going home and reading Joseph Heller’s Catch-22. It may keep you from reaching for your stun gun. Or not.

Sometimes you can do quirky little things to enhance your reading experience. For example, when reading Ron Rash’s Serena, get some sliced beef and offer people sandwiches made with your own special mustard. And smile sweetly. Trust me, it’s a kick.

Finally, if you’re an author of  intelligence-themed thrillers, go back and read Somerset Maugham’s Ashenden, Joseph Conrad’s The Secret Agent, or anything by John le Carré.  It will keep you humble.