It's an intimidating thing, to talk about books with a stranger. At least, for me, it is. It's intimidating, because it is intimate.
This afternoon, my dad brought me, our bellies full of enchiladas from my birthday lunch, to a beautiful seaside bookstore. He would buy me a birthday book, in the middle of our seaside vacation for a little bit of birthday R&R. The bookshop was everything a bookshop should be. It shines like a star in a state where so much can seem inauthentic and plastic. It was tall and not wide, but the tall shelves were in reach of short arms. It was big enough to walk around with friends and strangers but small enough for the intimate exploration that is reading. When reading, you should have something close to you. It had an appropriate mix of popular and classics, old, new and things I had never seen before. I had a specific book in mind, but one that would be my little secret (ok, my dad knew too) until I met the cashier, where I could, afterwards, retreat to the parking lot and to my sister's friend's mother's beach house, which is also wonderfully tall and not wide.
If a stranger knows my book, he or she could know me or judge me. Sometimes, I don't know which is worse, but I fear them both. And, yet, I long for them both (hence, the blog). I wonder if I blushed, then, when a smart-looking woman with dark hair and a pointed expression asked if she could help me find what I was looking for. She was not overly friendly in a southern kind of way, but she was business-like and helpful in a way that I could not refuse. Like everyone else who worked there, I had the impression that she knew her books. These were not the bored teenagers at your local chain bookstore. They sell books, and then read them for fun. They sit on their second-story porch where they can see the sea from their hammock and read without inhibition, the wind lovingly combing their hair like a French servant. In fact, I found my dream job. Where else could I combine my passions for learning and leisure?
I told her I was looking for "The Man Who Was Thursday," by G.K. Chesterton. I enjoyed his short detective stories staring Father Brown, and I am always looking for cases when Christians write well. I did not tell her this because of restraints on time and context. She knew of the book but did not have it. What did she think of me? I wondered. Did she presume I was a Christian, and made the jump to talk-show religious politics? How she must have shuddered! Did she know that some of his statements, if taken the wrong way (and you know there must be all sorts of left-learning academics who take it the wrong way) could be seen as justifying evil acts of the Catholic Church? Ok, I admit, some of his phrases bother me too, the way Thomas Jefferson's racism bothers me. Jefferson and Chesterton are men of their times and should be read as such, but I digress. In any case, I told her my secret and found out it wasn't there. Did I mention the customer service at this place is great?
Part II: Choosing a Book
My Chesterton book was not there, but I am not one to let a birthday go to waste. I searched for another book. It's a task I can't take lightly. I once saw a quotation on a mug for sale at Barnes and Noble that admonished me to "choose your books like you choose your friends" or something like that. This is true. A book, a very good book, at least, is a commitment. It is a relationship, one that says, the mental energy spent on you is worth the time away from the television, the internet or the bar. Iron sharpens iron, and a well-written book can sharpen me. That is why I am such a slow reader. The first few chapters are an awkward courtship, testing the syntax, meeting the characters, feeling through the plot and, above all, wondering what the author believes and how much that will affect me. Furthermore, I had just ended my relationship with Anna Karenina. It was a violent and beautiful end, leaving me much to process and consider (times with journals and good friends, comfort food, warm cups of tea and the like). I admit it - I have some withdraw. But, for the sake of my own health, I cannot go back, and, for that matter, I need some time away from Tolstoy. I have read some of Chesterton's non-fiction and knew what to expect, so I decided he was a safer bet for another novel relationship. Whom to choose, with him, at the moment, spoken for?
If a stranger knows my book, he or she could know me or judge me. Sometimes, I don't know which is worse, but I fear them both. And, yet, I long for them both (hence, the blog). I wonder if I blushed, then, when a smart-looking woman with dark hair and a pointed expression asked if she could help me find what I was looking for. She was not overly friendly in a southern kind of way, but she was business-like and helpful in a way that I could not refuse. Like everyone else who worked there, I had the impression that she knew her books. These were not the bored teenagers at your local chain bookstore. They sell books, and then read them for fun. They sit on their second-story porch where they can see the sea from their hammock and read without inhibition, the wind lovingly combing their hair like a French servant. In fact, I found my dream job. Where else could I combine my passions for learning and leisure?
I told her I was looking for "The Man Who Was Thursday," by G.K. Chesterton. I enjoyed his short detective stories staring Father Brown, and I am always looking for cases when Christians write well. I did not tell her this because of restraints on time and context. She knew of the book but did not have it. What did she think of me? I wondered. Did she presume I was a Christian, and made the jump to talk-show religious politics? How she must have shuddered! Did she know that some of his statements, if taken the wrong way (and you know there must be all sorts of left-learning academics who take it the wrong way) could be seen as justifying evil acts of the Catholic Church? Ok, I admit, some of his phrases bother me too, the way Thomas Jefferson's racism bothers me. Jefferson and Chesterton are men of their times and should be read as such, but I digress. In any case, I told her my secret and found out it wasn't there. Did I mention the customer service at this place is great?
Part II: Choosing a Book
My Chesterton book was not there, but I am not one to let a birthday go to waste. I searched for another book. It's a task I can't take lightly. I once saw a quotation on a mug for sale at Barnes and Noble that admonished me to "choose your books like you choose your friends" or something like that. This is true. A book, a very good book, at least, is a commitment. It is a relationship, one that says, the mental energy spent on you is worth the time away from the television, the internet or the bar. Iron sharpens iron, and a well-written book can sharpen me. That is why I am such a slow reader. The first few chapters are an awkward courtship, testing the syntax, meeting the characters, feeling through the plot and, above all, wondering what the author believes and how much that will affect me. Furthermore, I had just ended my relationship with Anna Karenina. It was a violent and beautiful end, leaving me much to process and consider (times with journals and good friends, comfort food, warm cups of tea and the like). I admit it - I have some withdraw. But, for the sake of my own health, I cannot go back, and, for that matter, I need some time away from Tolstoy. I have read some of Chesterton's non-fiction and knew what to expect, so I decided he was a safer bet for another novel relationship. Whom to choose, with him, at the moment, spoken for?
At most book stores these days, the tables towards the front - tempting shoppers entrance and exit - are fling books. These books don't demand much from a relationship. The clever covers and entertaining authors promise a beach romp on your next vacation with no strings attached. They wave and wink from their low tables and store-front displays all the way to the shelves of novels from yesteryear. They require low commitment and have a high entertainment-to-challenge ratio. I'm not above slipping one in my carry-on for my next flight to Germany. Even respectable bookshops such as this one are not immune to such flirtatious marketing. It's where the money is.
But in my heart of heart, emotional scars and all, I need meat, not candy. Book flings are fun, but a deep challenging novel dares speak to me at a human level and somehow makes the rest of my life seem more complete. In a section exclusively for southern writers, I find "Jayber Crow," by Wendell Berry. I have only read Berry's essays and a smidgeon of his poetry. His prose alone is worth the price of the book, and his vision of community and local economy shake me. Expect me to throw out our computers and take up gardening if I prove malleable before his stern expression.
My dad bought the book from the woman with a pointed expression. She was not wearing trendy, bookish glasses, but part of me thought she should be. We stepped outside, tasted air brought in fresh from the Gulf Coast, and moved forward.
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