Took two on my travels, selected not least for their compactness: A Moveable Feast by Hemingway and JA Baker’s The Peregrine.
The Hemingway is simply superb. It’s really ‘just’ a memoir, written not long before his death, of his time in Paris as a struggling writer (who could hang out with Ezra Pound, F Scott Fitzgerald, Gertrude Stein etc). It’s concise but concentrated. He was a man’s writer and never mind the bravado of the big game hunting or the bull fighting (Death in the Afternoon is a must), he was heartbreaking in the last couple of pages about his own failings (I won’t spoil it further, suffice to say, it’s very short book and could be finished over a few beers in a dilapidated Parisian bar).
The Peregrine is also recommended. The author follows a pair of peregrines in his patch of Essex one winter in the 1960s ,becoming part of their lives. Sounds repetitive – peregrine wakes up, bathes, kills, eats, sleeps – but the imagery he uses means it’s never dull. Worth it for one page-long description of a high-speed stoop.