Warning: Highly opinionated.
Psychosis is, like all extremes, extremely attractive to the outside obserber. It promises to sweep away all the petty dross, the mundaity and the small evils in a wave of glasslike malevolence, promising that all will be fine once half of us lie beneath the sodden earth. In reality, it simply creates it own mundanity.
Fondant on literature:
Orwell: 1984: Surpirisingly easy to read, well-constructed and delectably horrifying, a combination of gleaming, cruel intellect with mindless brutality laced with the crushing of all hope.
Miguel Cervantes: Don Quixote: reading it, and enjoying it. Takes it's time, but it's been pretty good so far.
The communist Manifesto: Read this, and understand why the world trembles at the rise of the red star.
Terry Goodkind: Starts off well, but slowly degenerates into a pissing match against socialism, and an espousal of his insane politics. Still worth reading, but it becomes so abjectly upsetting to have to section off the writing from the rhetoric.
Ayn Rand: Lady, you one stupid *****. No concept of economics, no understanding of human nature beyond the one facet of 'competition', seems to not understand the seperation between humanity and government. Places 'competition' on some sort of pedastal, and then goes on to destroy her argument. Oh, and fairly feeble anti-communist propaganda. I would say take this witha pinch of salt, but in truth, it should be taken with several tonnes of the damn stuff, and should only be legally sold as a companion to either: The General Theory of money, Employment and interest or Das Kaptial. God preserve us from lunatics like this one.
Solzhenitsin: His works against the autocracy of Lenin and Stalin are elegant, bleak and truly show the face of totalitarianism. I particularly enjoyed One Day in the life of Ivan Denisovitch, and the Gulag Archipelago is worth a read. Cancer Ward is much the same.
However, his works on the Tzarist state, such as August 1914, rank as some of the most turgid, romantiscising and silly that I've read. I barely managed August 1914, and the following books nearly killed me with the sheer weight of their uncritical worship of Tzarist Russia. I strongly suspect that I will suffer for this critique, but I'll restate this much: He is still a splendid author.
Carlo D'Este: Decision in Normandy: A well-written account on the Normandy campaign, that is both critical and at the same balanced in it's approach to Montgommery. It's only flaw is the author's waxing lyrical the subject of General George Patton, whom he subjects only to critiscism on his personality, rather that critiscism on his generalship.
Oscar Wilde: Only read The Soul of Man under socialism and a collection of his works, but I must say that I like his work, and his style in particular. Though his blatant rim-piratery becomes a little excessive at times.
Correli Barent: Britainand Her army: a merciless taking apart of the british military, coupled with a fair, and objective assessment of their performance in many, many wars. Worth reading.
Terry Prattchet: Pure, spectacular elegance, wit and style. Read or die.
The Illiad: More a history than a book. Averageness.
The Hitchhiker's guide: Funny. Very funny.
Lord of the rings series: Boring, I'll be frank. Tolkien managed to make brutality, evil and horror as mundance as crumpets and tea with no butter or sugar. His writing is staid, his style inelegant and his subject matter is neglected in favour of perusing off into the aimless wnaderings of his mind with little concern for the reader's wellbeing, or interest.