In bed with an author

Among the very best things about living alone is coming home at the end of a cacophonous day, closing the door to the rest of the world and having my space all to myself.

The next best thing about living alone is climbing into bed at night and getting lost in a good book (homage of Charles Dickens, Ray Bradbury, Jasper Fforde and so many others). Sometimes for 30 minutes and sometimes long into the night. I'm safe and sound and all tucked in with my book.

The other evening I finished a very nice Greek murder mystery by Anne Zouroudi. I'd only had a few chapters left. Dropping it to the floor in my "read" pile, I sorted through the unread stack and selected "One For the Books," a short little perspective on books from all angles by book lover and critic Joe Queenan.

To be honest, I haven't been in the mood lately for nonfiction or essays and was doubtful that I'd stick with it.

But almost immediately I found myself doing somethings while in a book that I haven't done in ages. Grabbing a pen to underline important ideas since I'd already decided this book would be among those I would be giving to one of my graduating students. Dog-earring pages where he mentioned authors and books I felt it necessary to add to my list. (I did suggest he might have included an index of books and authors to ease my task --- but you know writers. Suggestions are not always welcome.)

I read whole passages out loud because they deserved to be heard by me and my cats.

I laughed out loud. I teared up several times and especially at this from a favored librarian of his. --- "A library is not a business. A library is a miracle." (pg. 57)

By now, I'm hearing the author's voice and not reading aloud anymore. We are having

Joe Queenan

a serious conversation now...in bed.

He tells me how little interest he has in nonfiction and less in books foisted (gifted) on him by friends --- yet, he gifts books as do I.

His tastes run the gamut from the Classics to a contemporary page-turning thriller, with a very special place in his heart for French authors and writings because of the education and life experiences he gained there.

He mocks one of my favorite storytellers without naming him, who sets his murder mysteries in Laos and Southern Thailand, with a sort of a murder-mystery-is-a-murder-mystery-is-a-murder-mystery-regardless-of-setting kind of smirk. He misses, I think to myself too polite to argue with him, the socio-political, cultural tour that Colin Cotterill (and Zouroudi for that matter) takes me on including the touch of mysticism Cotterill weaves so entertainingly into his Dr. Siri Paiboun series. His loss I do bravely tell him loud enough to disturb a cat.

He knows the exact number of books he reads a week, a month, a year and often has as many as 30 going at one time. I look down at the piles of read and to-be-read books on the floor around my bed.

He reminds me why books will survive the Kindle.

“…[b]ooks are sacred vessels...are connective tissue. Books possess alchemical powers, imbued with the ability to turn ennui into ecstasy…We believe they have magical powers.

            “People who prefer e-books may find this baffling or silly. They think that books merely take up space. This is true, but so do your children and Prague and the Sistine Chapel.

            “I will never own an e-reader. A dimly remembered girl-friend’s handwriting will never take me by surprise in the Nook. A faded ticket to the Eiffel Tower will never fall out of a Kindle.” (239-240)

While packing books in my latest move, a handwritten note from a dearest friend who died recently fell out of a book I was discarding. Another included a picture of me and a lost love. My Eiffel Tower miracles.

He validates my disinterest in joining a book club:

“Book discussion clubs have almost nothing to do with reading. This may be why they so rarely choose good books. Participants are seeking unanimity, and good books do not invite unanimity. They invite discord, mayhem, know fights, blood feuds…A book is a series of arguments between the author and the reader, none of which the reader can possibly win. This is especially true if James Joyce is involved.” (44)

Unlike him, I rummage through used book stores and library book sales for what I’m after. (I didn’t have the heart to tell him I’d picked up his book for a buck at the Dollar Store.) I also tend to put books that don’t suck me in back into circulation through free lending libraries and donations to library book sales. Unlike him, most of the books that fill my study’s shelves are waiting to be read.

It’s nearly 6 a.m. by now and the conversation just keeps getting better and then he goes and does it. “I’m 61,” he tells me. “I’m in the autumn of my life.” 

The conversation comes to a screeching halt and what follows are some very awkward silences between us.

With the early morning birds waking in the trees outside of my window and an April breeze cooling my shoulder, I think, is he telling me that within a year, I am going from those spring fresh greens of 26 (I’m only 26) to the gold and red and orange leaves of fall that break away from the living tree to brownout, crumble and blow away? Autumn means that winter can’t be too far away.

I'm offended that he's mentioned my age and implied there might be an end to my days. As my late mother-in-law told us often, "I never intended to go," was what she wanted on her tombstone. I hope her family followed through on that.

His voice is lost to me now. I quietly read the final pages of the book alone.

Queenan knows the exact number of books in his home. He has calculated his life expectancy and the number of books he expects to get through before winter freezes over him. While it sounds well organized, it also sounds like surrender.

I never have nor will I ever stop to calculate the time I have left, neither will I prioritize a must read bucket list of books. As they come to me I will read them and read them and read them long into the rest of my nights.


Queenan, Joe, "One For The Books," Viking, 2012.