I had breakfast with two old friends on Monday morning, before my cough and now yucky nose turned ugly. I was late, because the heating guy had to come early (or never) to install thermostat number two (it’s still not working right), and readjust the boiler settings. I hate being late, but I had no choice – stay home and let him reinstall the thermostat, or continue listening to my heat go on and off, on and off – over and over again. Funny – that’s what it’s been doing all morning. Yeah, so much for thermostat number 2!
As soon as I sat down in the booth, apologies bursting out of my cold lips like ice cubes clonking down an icemaker, my friend thrust her reading journal in my hands. She’d told me she was going to bring it, and boy am I glad she did. Are you ready for this? She’s been writing down the titles of all the books she’s read since 1972 – which means I got to walk down her reading memory lane with her. What a treat that was.
As soon as I finished, though, I came down with a case of neon green jealousy.
Darn. How come I didn’t create myself a permanent ongoing record of my reading life, considering the fact that I’m an out and out reading addict? I’m such a prime candidate, too, because I create freaking Excel spread-sheeted reading lists, which I’m never without. (Hey! I might be near a library during the day.)
Unfortunately, I update my list many times a year, once the penciled-in just-out must-reads fill up the white space; once the list’s updated, though, I throw it away. Therefore, I have never, ever had an unbroken record of all the titles I ate up (or spit out and rejected) in any one year.
I’m smacking my forehead with my palm, like a stereotypical Italian in a Fellini movie, for being such a buckethead when it comes to chronicling my life. Feel free to call me Ms. Stupido.
To make up for my lack of foresight, I’m writing down this week’s favorite December, 2010 book (It’s right up there with the Joyce Carol Oates piece about her husband’s death in last week’s New Yorker, which knocked me out and made me cry. I know it’s not a book, but it was a perfect piece of writing, in my opinion. Don’t miss it): The Night Bookmobile by Audrey Niffenegger (she also wrote the Time Traveler’s Wife, which I haven’t read).
Please, please - don’t reject it because it’s a graphic novel. It’s a book addict’s dream, so to speak, and is so brilliantly imagined and drawn I couldn’t believe Niffenegger thought it up on her own. Yep. I’m oozing a little more jealousy, oh yes I am.
Unfortunately, I have to add a spoiler alert, because there’s a ridiculous suicide in the middle, or maybe towards the end, which kind of, sort of ruined the heretofore-flawless story for me and made me furious with the author. I wish I’d known about it before I fell in love with the book – which is why I’m telling you. Now that you know, you can eat it up and spit out the bad part.
Bon appétit.
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