Higashi no Eden (Eden of the East): the best conspiracy 10 billion yen can buy

Boy meets Girl.

Here is an anime whose plot is like a ripoff out of a Robert Ludlum novel: On November 22, 2010 ten missiles strike Japan. However, this unprecedented terrorist act, later to be called “Careless Monday,” does not result in any apparent victims, and is soon forgotten by almost everyone. Fast forward three months later, a guy wakes up in Washington D.C. with no memory. He is stark naked, he has a gun in his right hand and a phone on his left – a mobile phone charged with 8,200,000,000 yen in digital cash. Who is he, really?

Jason Bourne has an anime lovechild.

This is not your typical anime series.

Higashi no Eden opens with Saki Morimi on a graduation trip in the United States. She takes a detour and heads to Washington DC where she makes it a personal mission to throw a coin to the White House fountain. Problem is, the fountain is several feet away from her, there is a huge iron gate in between her and the fountain, and it is the White House. But she endearingly tries so we forgive the absurdity. This sentiment is however, lost on the two burly policemen who has spotted her. They approach her and in the midst of her panic she is saved by a nudist with a gun and a cool cellphone.

yes, this scene had me going “WTF!?”

i think all three of them had the same reaction too.

Grateful for having saved her, Saki lends the man whose only cover is a distracting white squiggly moving lines  her coat, he accepts it and leaves. It would have been her last meeting with him, but as belated realizations would have it, her wallet and passport are in her coat. Saki ends up chasing him who has, because of his cellphone, now found his apartment.

It is a charming opening scene. But when we later see the numerous passports the man has in his apartment, the number of weapons he has, his highly specialized cellphone that is connected to a computer who calls herself ‘Juiz’ (Portuguese word for ‘Judge’), his suspicious looking documents, how easily he blew an entire room by using a toaster, and how he can effortlessly dodge the police, the show is quick to remind us that this is a mystery thriller. And so when Saki finally catches up with him and asks him his name, he takes one of the names in his passports and says ‘Akira Takizawa’. And we wonder, who is Akira Takizawa?

Higashi no Eden boasts, among others, the best opening episode I have ever seen in an anime series. NihonReview said it best when they wrote: “When it’s done right, the mystery genre can produce some of the most absorbing and unique stories in anime. Eden of the East is a fine example of the mystery genre done right, and it’s utterly captivating from its first few minutes. ” Indeed, it proves to be a remarkable original, never once diminishing its quiet charm and charisma, its sweet innocence and subtle humor as the story progresses. We smile at the not-quite-friendship friendship between Akira and Saki, and we smile over the other supporting characters as well: Saki’s friends and family, Akira’s allies and even his enemies.

Production I.G., the studio that brought us anime series such as Ghost in the Shell, Blood+, and FLCL, has never failed to give us quality-driven shows. It continues to do so now. Feature it with Chika Umino’s (Honey and Clover) character designs and you’ve got an unlikely match made in heaven. Generally, the mystery thriller genre can never be perfectly mixed with the words ‘charisma’ and ‘sweet innocence’ but in Higashi no Eden it takes an exception and mixes them in a way that no one has successfully done before. Its character designs reminds us that these are well-meaning characters with a heart and Production I.G. was finally able to do what it had tried to do before: give us characters with such humanism it is impossible to not like or soften up to them. Its visuals is, in one word, disarming.

Higashi no Eden is one of the best anime series I’ve seen. As the story progresses, it strives to be more than just a mystery thriller that could be straight from a Ludlum novel. As it mirrors the daily realities of current events of our world we see that it struggles for political and social significance. It is one of the very few anime out there laden with movie references and parodies, most notable of which is when Akira imitates Taxi Driver‘s infamous line “You talkin’ to me?” and at one point, he even has a poster with the phrase “The World is Yours” (Scarface) printed on it. It is a smart anime.

Noel Gallagher. Oasis. Seeeeeeeeeeeeee.

… Aaannd its opening song is “Falling Down” by the Oasis. (I don’t know about you but that garners plus points for me.)

Later, we are introduced to the very core of the series’ plot: the 12 Selecao (Portuguese for ‘Selected’) (Akira is the 9th). Who are they? What is their connection with these missile attacks? Are they terrorists? If not, then why do they each have 10 billion yen in digital cash? Who is Juiz? Who is Mr. Outsider?

What is going on?

– A good question that sprouts more questions. It takes eleven episodes and two movies to answer each of them. But as NihonReview puts it: “My only major complaint can almost be seen as a good thing: with the hanging ending, comes confirmation that there’s still more to come.”

the cooool Selecao cellphone that answers with a “This is Juiz and I will be your conscierge.” And ends with a “Noblesse Oblige. Please continue being a messiah.” I want one.

akira takizawa and saki morimi


A line from Shakespeare’s Julius Ceasar, “The abuse of greatness is when it disjoins remorse from power.” behind the icons of the 12 Selecao . In other words, there’s a connection.

.: I believe I once quickly ranted about Higashi no Eden and promised to do a review. well self, here it is.



An Alias fanfiction (because a long time ago, I was in love with Alias). The story is mine, Alias is not. The lyrics aren’t as well. “Snapshots” – an isolated observation. The briefest of memories made still, forever captured by an observer.

Sydney Bristow and Michael Vaughn


“How did you find me?” She asked as he sat down on a bench, their backs to each other.

“You told me a couple of months ago that when you feel the need to disappear you go to the observatory. But, the observatory was closed. Then I remembered you said the pier calms you down, but you weren’t there. And you weren’t at the bluffs in thePalisades, either.

“You didn’t really go to all those places…”

“Yeah, I did. And then I remembered you like the train station, too. Normal people go to their normal jobs.”

These fragile bodies of touch and taste.

“I can’t believe you remembered all that.” She whispered, awed. A faint smile playing on her lips.

“Well.. I did,” he softly answered.

This fragile skin, this hair like lace.

Spirits open in the thrust of grace.


Never a breath you can afford to waste.

“Listen,” he said. His voice foreign to his ears – almost hesitating, “when you’re at your absolute lowest, at your most depressed,” he paused, unsure if he should continue. “I’m in,” he finally said. Finishing what he believed she already knew. His voice no more than a whisper. “If you need me.”

Worldly sounds of endless warring were, for a moment, silent stars.

Worldly boundaries of dying were, for just a moment, never ours.


He looked at her. Remembering the person she had been thirty years ago. The woman he loved, and as circumstances had permitted it, had grown to hate. Her wife. Or so she was in the pretentious illusion of their marriage.

“I missed you,” she gently said as she pressed a palm in the cold glass that separated them. She sounded sincere, and she was. She smiled when he kept his silence, knowing instantly and almost painfully, that he had not believed it.

She watched him. Unflinching for the thousand time at his cold gaze. He was a façade of intrigue and detachment. An embodiment of irony, and, to her, of freefall. Unwanted defeat.

I stood on the edge tied to a noose.

“Thank you,” he replied. His tone not losing its note of doubt and sarcasm. As if burdened that he had even said that. Hesitatingly, he lowered his eyes to meet her stunned gaze. “I missed you too.”

And then silence. Always silence. They stood there facing each other. Her, inside a chambered room which was her prison. And him, in momentary annoyance and loathing. Lost in the thin line that bordered between love and hate. The captor and the convict. He frowned, unsure if he should say the words that had crossed his mind before he had stood in front of the woman who so betrayed him.

And I stand and smile and breathe.

Nevertheless, he said it.

“You’re right. Technically, we’re still husband and wife.”

At that place, at that time,

And slowly, he stepped back and walked away.

I knew you better than anyone.


He stood as the black sedan swerved across the driveway and halted to a stop. As if on cue, the door on the driver’s seat swung open, the glint of the dimly lit driveway giving it an almost solitary glow as a woman came out and slowly walked towards him. For a split second, he gazed at her but as circumstantial acknowledgments would have it, he looked away.

She stopped five feet away from him. “Hi,” she greeted. A polite smile on her face.

He raised his eyes and looked past her. “Hi.”

I know you can’t be knowing for me

They were back where they had started: Him at her side. And her beside his. But never too close. Momentary consents through stolen glances. Through every brush of hands, every clash of gazes, every word none of them ever dared say. But never stepping on solid ground.

and I hope that you’re not hoping for me.

“Yesterday,” he began, breaking the silence between them that hung only seconds ago, “when you told–” But she cut him short.

“No. You don’t have to explain.”

Sweet thing.

He flinched, offended by her callousness. Nonetheless he continued. “Yesterday, when you told me—”

“Seriously,” she said yet again. Almost a demand. “Don’t explain.” She remained looking down. And as if knowing he would not say anything this time, she looked at him. A sad smile in her eyes. “Lie to me,” she whispered. Her voice threateningly fragile.

with hopes like that

He raised his eyes and met hers momentarily lost in its turbulence.

you’re going to need help avoiding the fact.

“Everything will be alright.”


The sky never looked as ugly as that night. In the darkened corner of an abandoned alley lay the shadowed figure of a man. Silent and still save for the deep breathes he took every now and then. He crouched; his head bent forward as he held in his arms the unconscious body of a woman.

It’s always you, or some reflection of you.

“I’m sorry,” he quietly said. Almost wishing that she could hear him. Slowly, he held her closer to him, the handgun by his side and the gold ring that he wore in his finger long forgotten. Two years had passed since he last saw her. A lot has happened, a lot has changed. But, as unwanted as it may be for him then as it is now, she still mean the same things to him as she did years ago: freefall, intricacy, torment. An accident waiting to happen.

Carry every wish we never dared make.

He sighed, lightly brushing her hair that hung delicately in her shoulders. And, surrendering to the moment, he gazed down at her unconscious form. As if longing for something he had never had.

“I love you,” he whispered knowing that she would never hear.

Pride and Prejudice (and husband-hunting women)

“I cannot fix on the hour, or the look, or the words, which laid the foundation. It is too long ago. I was in the middle before I knew that I had begun.”

I stayed up late for this. I was squinting my eyes, absentmindedly grinning like a megalomaniac at four in the morning, just so I can finish the remaining one hundred pages of the book. (Yes, one hundred.) You see, I didn’t want to put Mr. Darcy down. Not when there are only a hundred more pages to go before I finish the novel.

It was worth the 4:30 a.m. start of sleep.

Back in 1813, Jane Austen sat down and wrote what would be her most cherished novel, Pride and Prejudice. Two hundred years later, it is still among the world’s most beloved literature.

It is a testament to Jane Austen’s ability to write witty romance stories without being silly or cheesy. It comes to a point that to categorize Pride and Prejudice as a love story makes me feel like such a label actually cheapens it. (Although perhaps such an impression simply stems from the fact that there are but a few romance novels that are beautifully and richly portrayed.)

But no matter.

Pride and Prejudice is a comedy of manners and morals. And, for the sake of labels, it is a love story. One that endearingly opens a window to 18th century marital standards. For indeed, what else can the tone of a novel’s plot be when it opens with the sentence: “It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a good fortune, must be in want of a wife.” And, with such an opening, a story filled with husband-hunting women starts. It is quite quite endearing.



The title, Pride and Prejudice, is rooted from the primary nature of the main characters (although it isn’t an exclusive trait.) With Pride is tall, handsome and possessing of a ten-thousand a year Mr. Fitzwilliam Darcy. He is excessively concerned with morals, decorum, and was described by the townsfolk of Netherfield Park as aloof, proud, haughty and arrogant after thirty minutes of meeting him. With Prejudice comes tolerably pretty and wise-eyed Ms. Elizabeth Bennet who has a tendency to judge based on first impressions. (See the interplay?) Darcy’s and Elizabeth’s first meeting held no promise of a blossoming romance. How can it be when he described her as “… tolerable. But not enough to tempt me.” Elizabeth hears this and quickly decides that he would be the last man she would be prevailed on to marry. While Darcy, no sooner had he said it, began to be intrigued by her. And so the story goes. Elizabeth remains clueless of his affections, while he remains tormented by his till he finally decided to woo her. When he finally says he loves her in what would be the most insulting proposal in history, the real story begins.

It is an understatement to say that I love Pride and Prejudice (though I can’t think of other words that rank higher so I’ll settle with it.) It is easy to understand why Elizabeth Bennett is one of the most popular characters in British literature. It is for the same reasons why she is among my favorite heroines. (Lucky girl, that one.) And for a character created two hundred years ago, it is very noteworthy that Darcy can still make women born in these modern times fall in love with him. Every girl I know who has read the novel wants their own Mr. Darcy. Those that don’t either a) didn’t like it; b) halfheartedly read it; c) has no soul or heart or; d)  is just a snob who think she’s better than all the rest.

The novel is graced, not only with remarkable main characters, but with memorable supporting ones as well.

“I have been the most pompous arse.”

There is also Darcy’s best friend, the well-liked, five-thousand a year Charles Bingley and Elizabeth’s beautiful sister, Jane Bennett. Theirs is a love story about two very kind people, but on the outset makes him look like an ass and her an Ice Princess. But I love them nonetheless. (But not as much as I love Darcy and Lizzie.)

The Bennets

There is also the colorful, interesting Bennett Family. It is composed of a bookish, intelligent, passive father; a foolish, narrow-minded mother; a trying-hard sister (Mary); a frivolous flirtatious youngest sister who lacks common sense (Lydia); and an equally flirtatious but slightly has a presence of mind sister (Kitty). Jane and Elizabeth differ from their mother, Mary, Kitty and Lydia tremendously.

Jane Austen has been called as the finest novelist of English language. I have to agree with that. Pride and Prejudice (like all her other novels) is witty, sarcastic and enjoyably written. She gave us a delightful love story between two opposite characters and made it so unorthodox-ly romantic and sweet that we forget that not once did Darcy and Elizabeth kiss or embrace.

i leave you with my favorite scene in the movie 🙂

“Curiouser and curiouser!” The Magic of Alice in Wonderland

“Why, we’re all mad here. I’m mad, you’re mad.”

Lewis Carroll ought to have an altar somewhere. But then, perhaps having such an earthly altar would not even come close to his magic and enchantment? For what else can Alice in Wonderland be but those?

You see, I am quite at awe. I have never started and finished a book in a span of two hours. And I have never grinned like that in every chapter. And I never would have thought that Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland can do that. (You see, just until the minute before I started reading the book, I didn’t like Alice that much. I even wondered why a lot of people love it… Oh, the shame..) And by God did it do that.

I do love it. I find it most enchanting, superbly witty and fully engaging. It is now among my favorite classics (along with Peter Pan and others). And I shall recommend it to every person that goes my way (which I did, actually). I can quite say that if I were to post my favorite lines from the book here, I’d be posting something from every chapter.

I have one more thing I’d like to say:

The Mad Tea Party (the one with the Mad Hatter) is probably actually mad. Their conversations were so…. confusing and dumbfounding it left me with question marks popping in my head. And the Chesire Cat (you know, the eternally grinning almost-creepy fading cat?), he’s my favorite character.

Twilight, where vampires glitter in the sun

“What am I? Say it!” — “A vampire.”

The few minutes after I finished reading Twilight, I sat and found myself wondering, for the first (and probably only) time in my life, whether I like a book or not.

Out of righteous curiousity, since it seemed to me like I was among the very few people who has not read Stephenie Meyer’s ‘Twilight’, I searched for a .pdf file and read it. Which ended up with me asking myself why people say it’s one of the best books out there. I mean, REALLY???

Twilight has its flaws. It does not have a truly memorable plot, I was not wowed at its storytelling, and I was certainly not impressed by its writing. I scoff at the people who say otherwise, I have read far too many better-written stories by unpublished, anonymous writers and to say so would be a downright insult. As one critic said, “Stephenie Meyer is no J.K. Rowling”. Twilight is not new, in fact it’s the same old story of beautiful-boy-who-is-actually-a-vampire falls in love with small-town-girl. One of the things that I frowned upon was its reliance on a massive amount of adjectives – a more than necessary supply of descriptive words – illustrating just how inhumanly beautiful, how godlike looking, Edward Cullen is. (If only I was genius enough to think of scattering synonyms of handsome and gorgeous in almost every page of my novel, I could have been a millionaire!) In addition, Edward Cullen’s character as a vampire dangerously in love with a human, his constant talk and brooding centering on ‘I love you but if you’re smart you’ll keep away from me because I’ll be the death of you’ was nice at first, but it got tiresome due to its much too overt use in the end. And don’t get me started with Bella Swan.

Don’t get me wrong. I enjoyed reading Twilight. (I am brave enough to admit that to the world. Persecute me if you dare!) They had an assembly of interesting vampire and non-vampire characters. I grinned like a moronic idiot over Edward Cullen and Bella Swan. I, like every female with a right enough dosage of hormones in their body, love their flirtations, their romance, their love story, their courtship. Alas, my interest slowly died when they got together. And I felt the author failed to let the other characters live up to their full potential.

And yet, of course, despite its flaws, Twilight went on to be a phenomenon. I can’t blame the girls (although I would wonder about the guys). But whatever happened to beautiful writing? Whatever happened to classic? What about Pride and Prejudice? What about Mr. Darcy and Elizabeth Bennet? Heck, what about Harry Potter? I could never call Twilight a classic. That would be an insult to all the books I love. And it shouldn’t be up in the shelves with Romeo & Juliet, Mr. Darcy & Elizabeth Bennet.

But what really disappoints me is that Twilight could have been great. If only someone else wrote it. It had a lot of potential, only to be washed down the drain.

(I may be ruining a good closing, but I can’t help saying this: Does Bella have any other ambition but to be with Edward forever and ever? Seriously, her life revolves around him. To the point that it’s annoyingly pathetic. And Edward… as beautiful as you are, dear God, you can be painfully annoying at times.)

after all, the name Anastasia means she will rise again

There is no hero on this one. Rather there is a ne’er-do-well. She sits on the edge of the bed. The red paint in her nails chipping away. She had planned to trim those dirty nails, but like all the plans she had made these past few days(?).. weeks(?), they faded away consumed by idleness. She sits there, and then she thinks she hates herself. Everyone else has started that track, and she – what had she done? Taken one step forward only to take two steps back. She’s stayed, unmoving. Useless.

So much for the restless spirit she once was. How cruel – she had prided herself as one of those people who could never stay put in one place for too long… Or is it just a momentary bleakness? – a lethargy everyone must put up with every once in a while? She’s determined it must be the that, she refuses to have it otherwise.

You see, she grieves. – She grieves the loss of her… muchness. So she runs, and looks for a way back to her wonderland.

Hercules took all the muses away

 I remember the first story I ever wrote. I was in second year high school, it was a Journalism    class assignment, and it got published in the school paper.

It was also comprised of 15 pages of intermediate paper; so you can just imagine how it was when it came to public eye.

And oh, it was about vampires.

Oh yes. For what kind of writer would I be if I didn’t at least ponder about them?

I have every reasonable excuse that can only be traced to one source: Buffy Summers.

It was the time when Buffy the Vampire Slayer ruled television; and I –victim of the glory that is cable networks – did not remain unscathed. And, as it was the year wherein I first discovered internet and – by extension – fanfictions, nothing could have dissuaded me from my enthusiasm over Buffy and the Scooby Gang. Those, plus my Buffy the Vampire Slayers: The Origin comic books my father bought me (I still have them by the way), served as my research and inspiration to write my assignment turned second published write-up.

It had the particularly unimaginative, cheap title of ‘Vampire City’.

Miserly title aside, I took pride in what I wrote.

It had the whole vampire theories – the invitation before entering the house, the garlic, the wooden stake at the heart, the daytime sleep, the soulless evil of the damned, and the invulnerability against the cross. It started with the main protagonist, a girl, moving into a creepy town surrounded by local stories of the supernatural – much like local folklore of aswangs in provinces. And it ended with her and her remaining friends trapped inside a church with numerous Undeads forcing their way in. It was the aftermath of a schoolparty horribly gone wrong. Yes, in my story vampires can enter churches; I took a twisted pleasure in having it as such to shock my run-by-a-religious-organization-highschool. I sincerely thought I was going to be reprimanded by the principal.

Over the years my ‘titling’ ability drastically improved. No longer were my titles cheap and unimaginative and lackluster.

I realized this when I had to do a character sketch for an English class. I was fixated by the anime Rurouni Kenshin (Samurai X) during that time – so much that I decided to have one of the characters in the anime as my subject: Seta Sojiro (Shishio’s right-hand man, the perpetually smiling kid). I entitled it ‘Beautiful Alone’. It was among the most beautiful works I’ve ever written. (Unfortunately I lost my copy.)

As proof that it was no one-time thing, I had a particular 10-paged autobiography I silently entitled ‘My First Attempt at Suicide’. Mind you, it was a project at my Psychology 150: Personality class. (And I got a flat 1 on said autobiography.) And as further proof to make it a perfect three, I wrote an Alias fanfiction I entitled ‘Snapshots’. (Because a long time ago I was in love with Alias and the whole Sydney Bristow-Michael Vaughn affair.)



I’m not writing this to list some of my ‘written works’. God no. I’m writing this because I realized one thing now.

The works I love the most were written in a state of depression or anger or loneliness or isolation. That aside, they were written with such inspiration and such passion that the incentive to write them bordered between fandom and obsession. And alas, I have lost that. Such passion has left me.

I am now without an inspiration.

Yes, I am writing this to wail and bemoan the loss of my muse. It is an awareness that had left me befuddled for days.

I am stuck in writer’s block.

And I hate it.

But I’m getting over it.

I am getting my mojo back.

25 out of 100 ain’t bad

oh darling, let's be adventurers

The Big Read reckons that the average adult has only read 6 of the top 100 books they’ve printed.

a) Look at the list and bolden those you have read.
b) Underline those you intend to read.

  1. Pride and Prejudice – Jane Austen
  2. The Lord of the Rings – JRR Tolkien
  3. Jane Eyre – Charlotte Bronte
  4. Harry Potter series – JK Rowling
  5. To Kill a Mockingbird – Harper Lee 
  6. The Bible
  7. Wuthering Heights- Emily Bronte
  8. 1984 – George Orwell
  9. His Dark Materials – Philip Pullman
  10. Great Expectations – Charles Dickens
  11. Little Women – Louisa M Alcott
  12. Tess of the D’Urbervilles – Thomas Hardy
  13. Catch 22 – Joseph Heller
  14. Complete Works of Shakespeare
  15. Rebecca – Daphne Du Maurier
  16. The Hobbit – JRR Tolkien
  17. Birdsong – Sebastian Faulks
  18. Catcher in the Rye – JD Salinger
  19. The Time Traveller’s Wife – Audrey Niffenegger
  20. Middlemarch – George Eliot
  21. Gone With The Wind – Margaret Mitchell
  22. The Great Gatsby – F Scott Fitzgerald
  23. Bleak House – Charles Dickens
  24. War and Peace – Leo Tolstoy
  25. The Hitch Hiker’s Guide to the Galaxy – Douglas Adams
  26. Brideshead Revisited – Evelyn Waugh
  27. Crime and Punishment – Fyodor Dostoyevsky
  28. Grapes of Wrath – John Steinbeck
  29. Alice in Wonderland – Lewis Carroll
  30. The Wind in the Willows – Kenneth Grahame
  31. Anna Karenina – Leo Tolstoy
  32. David Copperfield – Charles Dickens
  33. Chronicles of Narnia – CS Lewis
  34. Emma – Jane Austen
  35. Persuasion – Jane Austen 
  36. The Lion, The Witch and The Wardrobe – CS Lewis
  37. The Kite Runner – Khaled Hosseini
  38. Captain Corelli’s Mandolin – Louis De Bernieres
  39. Memoirs of a Geisha – Arthur Golden
  40. Winnie the Pooh – AA Milne
  41. Animal Farm – George Orwell
  42. The Da Vinci Code – Dan Brown
  43. One Hundred Years of Solitude – Gabriel Garcia Marquez 
  44. A Prayer for Owen Meaney – John Irving
  45. The Woman in White – Wilkie Collins
  46. Anne of Green Gables – LM Montgomery
  47. Far From The Madding Crowd – Thomas Hardy
  48. The Handmaid’s Tale – Margaret Atwood
  49. Lord of the Flies – William Golding
  50. Atonement – Ian McEwan 
  51. Life of Pi – Yann Martel
  52. Dune – Frank Herbert
  53. Cold Comfort Farm – Stella Gibbons
  54. Sense and Sensibility – Jane Austen
  55. A Suitable Boy – Vikram Seth
  56. The Shadow of the Wind – Carlos Ruiz Zafon
  57. A Tale Of Two Cities – Charles Dickens
  58. Brave New World – Aldous Huxley
  59. The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-time – Mark Haddon
  60. Love In The Time Of Cholera – Gabriel Garcia Marquez
  61. Of Mice and Men – John Steinbeck
  62. Lolita – Vladimir Nabokov
  63. The Secret History – Donna Tartt
  64. The Lovely Bones – Alice Sebold
  65. Count of Monte Cristo – Alexandre Dumas
  66. On The Road – Jack Kerouac
  67. Jude the Obscure – Thomas Hardy
  68. Bridget Jones’s Diary – Helen Fielding
  69. Midnight’s Children – Salman Rushdie
  70. Moby Dick – Herman Melville
  71. Oliver Twist – Charles Dickens
  72. Dracula – Bram Stoker
  73. The Secret Garden – Frances Hodgson Burnett
  74. Notes From ASmallIsland- Bill Bryson
  75. Ulysses – James Joyce
  76. The Bell Jar – Sylvia Plath
  77. Swallows and Amazons – Arthur Ransome
  78. Germinal – Emile Zola
  79. Vanity Fair – William Makepeace Thackeray
  80. Possession – AS Byatt
  81. A Christmas Carol – Charles Dickens
  82. Cloud Atlas – David Mitchell
  83. The Color Purple – Alice Walker
  84. The Remains of the Day – Kazuo Ishiguro
  85. Madame Bovary – Gustave Flaubert
  86. A Fine Balance – Rohinton Mistry
  87. Charlotte’s Web – EB White
  88. The Five People You Meet In Heaven – Mitch Albom
  89. Adventures of Sherlock Holmes – Sir Arthur Conan Doyle
  90. The Faraway Tree Collection – Enid Blyton
  91. Heart of Darkness – Joseph Conrad
  92. The Little Prince – Antoine De Saint-Exupery
  93. The Wasp Factory – Iain Banks
  94. Watership Down – Richard Adams
  95. A Confederacy of Dunces – John Kennedy Toole
  96. A Town Like Alice – Nevil Shute
  97. The Three Musketeers – Alexandre Dumas
  98. Hamlet – William Shakespeare 
  99. Charlie and the Chocolate Factory by R. Dahl
  100. Les Miserables – Victor Hugo