There was a span of 20 months in my life which, due to personal circumstances, allowed me to read a list of books of which I had never had a chance, due to the investment of time necessary. As a physician, most of my time dealt with scientific disciplines and texts related to my vocation. During these 20 months of an unexpected “sabbatical,” therefore, I made this a life mission.

My list of books was purposely chosen on two criteria:

1. Books that were literary giants and whose neglect made me ashamed; and

2. books so large that if I missed my window, I’d never have another chance to get them under my belt.

My father, also a surgeon, regarded Les Miserablés his favorite book. Of the books on my list--War and Peace, A Tale of Two Cities, The Count of Monte Christo, Atlas Shrugged, Slaughterhouse 5, The Unbearable Lightness of Being, and about 100 more--I needed to read the Victor Hugo book first. My father had died a decade earlier, and reading this book would allow me to read it with him, journey with him, and mirror the actual neurons and synapses in his brain. What an extraordinary gift!

My father practiced medicine back when it was considered the “noble profession,” a time defined by the altruism of a holy doctor-patient relationship; before medicine became a trade or a commodity. He was a true gentleman.

As I began reading Les Miserablés, I met my father again in the character of the old bishop, Monseigneur Myriel. This noble benefactor sets up the entire novel, showing how compassion and mercy can weave a web, not of entrapment like the tangled web most often cited, but one of safety.

Safe from whom?

Safe from what we have spent millennia evolving convolutions around our reptilian brains, to oppose its selfish, survival-at-any-cost, troglodyte sensibilities--“I want--I take.” Monseigneur Myriel ’s discretionary allowances for the ex-convict Jean Valjean was an anthropomorphizing of the higher brain’s godlike tendencies: we weren’t made in

God’s image; we evolved toward Him.

From my father’s adage, “Goodness is its own reward,” to the last line of Dickens’

A Tale of Two Cities, “It is a far, far better thing that I do, than I have ever done; it is a far, far better rest that I go to than I have ever known,” the legacy we leave as human beings is of our own making.

What is a life well-lived? It is the elimination of the barriers between ourselves and others; elimination of the barriers between our inner monsters and what we actually do in life; and elimination of the barriers between what we can do and what we should do

Chosen wisely, it is a win-win.

Victor Hugo got it. My father got it. With some luck, I can, too.

This notion has existed in my subconscious ever since my 6-year-old self fell into the world of Harry Potter, but it was George Martin who put it so aptly to words: “A reader lives a thousand lives before he dies. The man who never reads lives only one.”

So, yes, the hundreds of books that line my bedroom closet have taught me much about navigating the world; through paper and ink I have learned perspective, I have learned to question everything, I have learned to cling to my beliefs, I have learned the value of forgiveness and the value in admitting I was wrong.

But, more importantly, it is through those same books that I have learned to navigate my own world and my own mind.

At the feet of novels, I have learned the true meaning of courage and inner strength, of resilience. Books have long-enabled me to learn to live with myself and my situation. I cannot be constricted or contained -- to me, that wonderful, simple rectangle of page, ink, and binding is a pathway into a different life.

I have flown fighter jets, fought in the second world war, wielded lightsabers, and learned magic. I have raced cars and laid siege to castle walls -- I am a master swordsman and a master criminal; I am an engineer and a scientist, a politician, and an inventor; an old man facing death and a young man facing life.

I have experienced and lived in all corners of humanity.

My twenty years of life are traced and fed by the thousands of lives that I have witnessed through war and peace, joy and suffering, lives that, though they might exist only on a page, are inexplicably and exceptionally real to me. The shared experiences of every character of every story that I have consumed are as much a part of me as my own experiences, those particular, personal moments that have come to define who I am.

My morals have been tested. My definition of right and wrong has frayed into that gray area that only the best writers reside in, that gray area that is real life.

If I had to condense my library to a single novel, a single story that has brought to me both the greatest enjoyment and most poignant impact, it is Shantaram, by Gregory David Roberts. It is a tale of love and hate, peace and war, honor amid amoral men. It is a story that has inspired me both as a human being, a thinker, a philosopher, and, importantly, as a writer.

My worldview has been shaped by many stories, but only The Witcher series, by Andrej Sapkowski, has left an indelible mark in my mind. That mark is as strong now as the day I first read the books. I shouldn’t have enjoyed the story. Its hero is eternally reluctant, every supporting character is flawed in a way that makes them hard to love, and the setting is a grisly mishmash of environmental and political dangers. Geralt, the hero, clings to his ingrained neutrality until Fate forces him into a quest to save the child he loves, a child who he did not want in the first place. It’s a dark tale that spends entire volumes dangling glimmers of light that never manifest into a happy ending. The story is at once too realistic and thoroughly drenched in fantasy. The Witcher’s life is no fairytale: he struggles, he loses, he grieves, and his every weakness is exploited. Geralt’s small successes and many failures parallel the adversities that we face in the real world. He dies at the end of the series, with his quest arguably left unfilled. As a lover of happy endings, those final few pages were hard to read.

That tragedy is what impressed me so vividly. Life is not easy, even in a fairytale. Having all the skills you need to survive doesn’t mean that survival is assured. We live in a world with dangers beyond our control, and although those dangers aren’t as grotesque as Geralt’s kikimora, they are just as lethal. Even heroes die eventually. Geralt’s neutrality, which I found so irritating at first, was an uncomfortable mirror of my own tendency to watch and wait, to fly under the radar of those many dangers. Geralt eventually learned to be proactive and face those dangers head on, and, surprisingly, he lost. Sometimes it takes watching the hero lose to realize that failure is better than inaction. He made the choice to soldier through the failures, to accept losing the battle, and then the war, so that he could die with a clear conscience.

I loved The Witcher’s story because it had a message that I needed to hear. It doesn’t promise happy endings or an easy journey, and it doesn’t promise that the supporting cast will always be loveable. It promises that the journey is worthwhile because it is necessary. It promises that even if life is peppered with one tragedy after another, there will still be glimmers of light flickering in the darkness. Happy endings are not guaranteed, but I’ve learned to enjoy those glimmers of hope when they come. I’ve learned to soldier through my failures and disappointments. Like Geralt, even if the ending isn’t what I wanted, I plan to die with a clear conscience.