A wonderful way to spend a Sunday afternoon: getting five books all for me!
I bought two novels (Beat the Reaper by Josh Bazell and 2666 by Roberto Bolano), two nonfiction essays (How Fiction Works by James Wood and The Sickness Unto Death by Soren Kierkegaard), and one picture book (A Book of Sleep by Il Sung Na). I love A Book of Sleep. Besides being super adorable, as all children’s books should be, the artwork was superbly intricate. But what compelled me to get the book is the owl character. This night owl totally resonates with me and it’s a good book to hug and comfort one’s insomniac mind at 3 in the morning.
I also considered these books but decided not to get them (this time): The Checklist Manifesto by Atul Gawande because I thought the book, although exciting, may worsen my obsessive list making nature; Outliers by Malcolm Gladwell perhaps because I am too ashamed about still not having read the book; The immortal life of Henrietta Lacks by Rebeccas Skloot because maybe I am being cheap and waiting for the paperback edition to come out; and All things Shining by Hubert Dreyfus and Sean Dorrance Kelly because when I am truly honest with myself, even the prospect of reading this well-reviewed and serious book gives me a headache. Besides, having already chosen The Sickness unto Death, I didn’t want to parent another philosophy book.
Then I noticed that every book I bought that day (with the exception of the children’s book) have some sort of red in the cover. I wonder if those four got picked and not the others mainly because, hmm, the covers match and create a nice visual set. Did I pick my books ultimately based on their covers? The calculations a reader makes when selecting books to buy may be complex (someone should do a study on this), and it is often an unconscious, arbitrary process. But I believe the desire to create an aesthetically pleasing set plays a significant role. A support for this random thesis: there WAS an alternate green cover for Beat the Reaper but I got the red one even though green is my favorite color. And looking back, the books I buy together tend to go together. I like to set new books on my coffee table and just stare at it for a few days, maybe take some photos, before giving them permanent homes on my bookshelf.
Oh but before granting permission to gift myself with new books, I did make a self-promise not to start reading a new book until I finish a book I am currently reading. This, of course, is to avoid reading ten books at once. I read multiple books at a time. I don’t recommend this to everyone, but it works for me with my lack of concentration and promiscuous interests. Also, it gives me the only chance to really commit to and finish reading long books (as defined by me to be any book over 500 pages). Anyway, I finally finished Descarte’s Error and allowed myself to start How Fiction Works.
And what a treat that book is! Admittedly, I wanted to own How Fiction Works more than actually wanted to read it. It’s a pretty petite book and I really like the cover and the font and the paper. But I was afraid such a literary book may be too abstract for me. It seemed like something my friends who major in English and see a metaphor every other word might read. But it’s not! I mean it is literary and academic, but the writing is so clear, so unpretentious and so captivating that you simply cannot put it down. I pick up the little volume meaning to attempt it in bite size pieces, but cannot put it down. The great mystery of fiction unfolds layer by layer with rhythmic writing that never loses momentum. What an addictive little book. I chide myself for not reading it earlier.
Now a little mishap. I do not keep books in little bubble wraps. I believe that a book should be read, and in that process, it acquires character… via little rips, and folds, and smudges. But I still go through the pile looking for the most pristine copy at the bookstore because, oh I dunno, I think a book should acquire personality and become unique only through use as a reading material, a pillow, or an instrument to avoid eye contact in public. So as I was looking for the most perfect copy of some book, I drop the copy I had picked earlier of How Fiction Works. And it was quite an unfortunate drop: the cover folded. Eek! I bought that copy though because 1. I think that’s the right thing to do; but 2. I figured I had already picked it, and so committed myself to that copy. I couldn’t orphan that book even if the store had let me… it was already mine. Since then, the book has gotten other signs of uniqueness. The cover is peeling… and there is a little hole in the back cover, probably acquired as it tumbled around my gigantic bag. But it’s mine mine mine.
Will these books outlive me as children generally outlive their parents?
