Books and reading

My kids are readers (no surprise, they were raised by a librarian) and they both married readers. So over Thanksgiving weekend we talked about books quite a bit. We talked about great books we had read over the last year; we caught up on books we had recommended to each other; we talked about authors we all (or some of us) had read; we discussed the plusses and minuses of Goodreads and Storygraph, Libby and Hoopla; we talked about what books were being made into movies, and why e-books just aren’t as magical as holding an actual book in your hands; and through it all we had our phones out to note anything that sounded good that we might have missed. Our different tastes made us a motley discussion group–from sci-fi/fantasy, to modern best sellers, to historical fiction to nonfiction to an occasional Children’s or Young Adult novel…we run the gamut of genres. And we were all enthralled as we watched The Dark Winds, a television series made from those evocative Tony Hillerman novels of the Navaho or Dine people. Some of us are thinking of reading or re-reading a few of them.

Both kids discussed their failures at participation in an adult summer reading program–and they both agreed that they wanted to read what they wanted to read. They didn’t want to be told to read a horror book or scary mystery (that was my daughter) or a light beach romance (that was my son). I’m right with them, but I might make exceptions for a beach romance (Emilie Henry, anyone?)

It’s not summer any longer though, and if your December calendar hasn’t already filled up, count yourself among the favored few. But beach reads and summer reading aside, winter is THE best time for reading. Sitting by a cozy fire with a mug of something warm to drink and an exciting book? It might even be better than summer reading, because nature is definitely not calling me to go outside and take a walk. I’m making my New Year’s Resolutions early this year—I’m going to read more deeply, more widely. On my list is:

the National Book Award winner James by Percival Everett (except I might have to reread The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn. I loved Tom Sawyer, but I’m thinking I didn’t finish Huck Finn–it was so long ago, I can’t remember.)
The River We Remember by William Kent Krueger. Two of Krueger’s books, Ordinary Grace and This Tender Land have made my 5 star list.
Tell Me Everything by Elizabeth Strout. Just this summer I read her pandemic novel, Lucy by the Sea and I was reminded how much I enjoy her writing.
During December I’m going to be reading Niall Williams’ new book Time of the Child because I also read his book This Is Happiness this summer. It was a slow, lyrically written character study of an Irish village being electrified in the sixties. If you want to step into the time before social media and modern frenzied life, Niall Williams is your man.
We Shall Not All Sleep by Tony Woodlief. His book from several years ago, Somewhere More Holy blew me away with his phrasing, his words, his thoughts, his humility and I’m looking forward to reading his new one.
It’s also going to be a Tolkien winter: The Hobbit + The Lord of the Rings + The Silmarillion (which I haven’t read and was highly recommended to me by my son-in-law). What could be better than the rereading of the ultimate fight against the Dark Lord, when we have our own evil cabal seizing power in this very country? It’s also a good time to stick your head in the sands of Middle Earth.
Octavia Butler’s Parable of the Sower. I read it when it came out in the nineties, but I’m told she predicted the Make America Great Again saying, so how can I not reread it, just for that alone…
And I’m also going to be rereading Prayer in the Night by Tish Harrison Warren because dark, winter, nights fit my mood this year, and I need to be reminded that light, spring, and morning will return…

And if any of you out there sometimes like great children’s books, I highly recommend The Eyes of the Impossible by Dave Eggers (it won the Newbery Award this past year) and The Inquisitor’s Tale by Adam Gidwitz. And right now I’m reading two excellent widely divergent books–The Comfort of Crows by Margaret Renkl (essays on the natural world in your backyard) and Eugene Peterson’s imaginative book on Revelation, Reversed Thunder.

My list is endless…

Read widely. Read deeply. The winter is long…

It was the summer between my junior and senior year in college. I was taking one class for summer school — an Independent Study on Women’s Literature. For those unfamiliar with the concept, that meant I just read some books I wanted to read by women and wrote papers about them. I remember reading The Awakening, Sense and Sensibility, Jane Eyre, The Heart Is a Lonely Hunter, and Mrs. Dalloway; I’m sure I could name a few others if I really thought hard. At the end of the summer, the professor, Mrs. Constantine, told me I had done a great job, but she had slipped up in not requiring me to read Middlemarch, by George Eliot. It was one of the greatest books by any woman author ever, she said. I should really have made you read it. Promise me you will read it, and I’ll give you an A.

Two years later, I was unemployed during one of the hottest summers ever, and I spent it in the air-conditioned public library. It was the summer that convinced me to go back to school and get a library science degree. It was the summer of reading. One of the first books I checked out was Middlemarch. I think I made it to about page 60, and then I put it down in favor of The Lord of the Rings.

I’ll read it some other time, I thought.

Three years later I was finished with library school, working in a public library, and a used copy of Middlemarch fell into my hands at the library’s used book sale. 25 cents.

I brought it home and started to read. I got to about page 60, and put it down in favor of The Doll Maker by Harriet Arnow.

But at least it was now on my bookshelves. Every couple of years I would pick it up again. I would always make it to about page 60 before I put it down in favor of just about any other novel — Dune, Angle of Repose, A Hundred Years of Solitude, Chronicles of Narnia, Peter Nimble and His Fantastic Eyes….

The book finally took its toll on me — every time I went to my bookshelves, the thick spine haunted me — all 850 pages. I finally gave it back to another library’s used book sale to assuage my guilt.

The last time I tried to read it was ten years ago. I got to about page 60. When I put it down for what I thought was the last time, in favor of Anna Karenina, I apologized to Mrs. Constantine for accepting that A under false pretenses; I apologized to Mary Anne Evans for not being able to read her seminal work; I apologized to the muses of great literature for failing to make it beyond 60 pages of what has been called one of the greatest novels ever written; and I apologized to the great God of all for not keeping a promise.

Last month while adding to my Netflix queue, I discovered that Middlemarch had been done as a Masterpiece Theater series in 1994 and was available on 2 discs. I moved it to Number 1 & 2 and hoped Mr. H. C. was amenable to watching it.

I admit to having always always always decried watching the filmed version of a book, any book. From Charlotte’s Web to Empire Falls. From The Hobbit to Sophie’s Choice.

But we loved watching it.

So much that I have now downloaded Middlemarch to my Kindle, and I am now on page 137.

Perhaps that A wasn’t under false pretenses after all. At least I’ve made it past page 60.

(In case you are interested, dear reader, chapter 5 begins on page 60. Before that, chapter 4 is where Dorothea meets Casaubon at their dinner party. Like Celia, I must have been bored to tears by Casaubon…)