The books that shaped me: philosophy, meaning, and action
A walk through the readings that shaped how I see life, work, and leadership.
I didn't start reading philosophy out of academic obligation or because someone recommended it. I started because I wanted to understand something I had always felt but couldn't articulate: why do some people act and others only think? The books gave me the vocabulary for that question — and some gave me the answer.
Kafka and the discomfort of paralysis
The first philosophy book I read was Kafka's Letter to His Father. And it disturbed me deeply. Not for what it says — for what it represents. Kafka was brilliant. He had the intellectual capacity to do anything. And still, he spent his life paralyzed, playing the victim, writing letters he never sent.
For me, Kafka became the antithesis of everything I want to be. A reminder of what happens when thought replaces action. Thinking without acting is intellectual cowardice. It's having all the tools and letting them rust in a drawer because you're afraid of using them wrong.
Victimhood is the grave of ambition. The moment you decide the world owes you something, you stop building.
Kafka taught me exactly what I don't want to be. And sometimes, knowing what you don't want is more valuable than knowing what you do.
Nietzsche and the Superman who already existed
Then came Nietzsche. I read The Antichrist and something clicked. The Nietzsche thesis that hit me hardest was his reading of Jesus — not as a religious figure, but as the ultimate stoic.
What made Jesus such a powerful figure wasn't the miracles or the later scriptures. It was something far simpler: he had a mission, he had a way of life, and he followed it to the end without taking a step back. He never played the victim. He never asked for the road to be easier. He accepted what came and kept walking.
That's Nietzsche's Superman in his purest form. Not someone with superhuman powers — someone with superhuman conviction. Someone who defines his purpose and pursues it whatever the cost.
Camus and Sisyphus: the art of pushing on
Albert Camus was the hardest book I've read. I confess that many parts went over my head. But at the end, when I got to Sisyphus, everything converged.
Sisyphus pushes a rock up a hill for eternity. Every time he reaches the top, the rock falls. And Sisyphus goes back down to get it and pushes again. Camus says we must imagine Sisyphus happy. Why? Because the act of pushing is the purpose itself.
That's pure stoicism. You don't need the rock to stay at the top for the effort to have meaning. The effort is the meaning. Every day you wake up, work, build something — even if tomorrow you have to start over — that has intrinsic value.
Viktor Frankl: meaning as the engine of survival
Viktor Frankl's Man's Search for Meaning is, for me, one of the best books that exist. Frankl survived Auschwitz. And in the middle of absolute horror, he reached a conclusion that changed psychology forever: he who has a "why" can endure any "how".
His logotherapy — the therapy based on the meaning of life — gave me a framework I apply to everything. When work gets hard, when a project seems impossible, when the body says enough at kilometer 15 of a race: what are you doing it for? If you have a clear answer, the pain becomes tolerable. If you don't, even the easy stuff feels unbearable.
The meaning of your life isn't given to you. You build it, every day, with each decision you make about who you want to be.
Who Moved My Cheese?: the only constant is change
A simple book with a message people constantly ignore: change is coming, whether you want it or not. The ones who survive are the ones who move first.
In a corporate world where people cling to processes, titles, and comfort zones, this book is a brutal reminder. The cheese moves. It always moves. You can sit and cry where it used to be, or you can get up and look for it where it is now. There's no third option.
The Alchemist: if the desire is there, it's because you can fulfill it
Of all the books, Paulo Coelho's The Alchemist is the one that stuck with me most. The central idea is devastatingly simple: if the universe placed a desire in your heart, it's because you have the capacity to fulfill it.
It isn't magical thinking. It's a declaration of responsibility. If you feel you can be more, do more, go further — that isn't fantasy. It's a signal. And your only job is to follow it, with everything that implies: sacrifice, discipline, sometimes solitude, sometimes being misunderstood.
Santiago, the shepherd, leaves everything to chase his Personal Legend. Not because it's easy, but because not chasing it would be a betrayal of himself. That resonates with every important decision I've made in my career.
What's coming
I'm currently reading The Fountainhead by Ayn Rand — a long, dense book about creative integrity and intellectual independence. Every 12 weeks I'll share a new reflection on the readings of the period.
Books don't change your life. They give you the language to understand the changes you were already making. Read with hunger, question everything, and act on what resonates.