“The moment when one meets a book and knows, beyond shadow of doubt, that that book must be his–not necessarily now, but some time–is among the happiest excitements of the spirit.” Christopher Morley
A few days ago, I finished reading the wrenching and wonderful Model Home (it topped my list of most-anticipated books of 2010) and now I’m casting about for the next book. There are plenty of choices on the aforementioned list; on the real-life to-read bedside table stack; or the bigger, virtual, to-read shelf on my goodreads page; or downstairs, in the library of the retreat where I’m staying. But so far, nothing I’ve started has satisfied.
“Special Problems,” by Cameron Wittig [via me melodia]
When a book I love is ending–no matter how devastating the final pages, no matter how desperate I am to know how things will turn out, and what the very last line will say to me–I slow down. Like a kid on a bike heading downhill, I use both my brakes and my feet, let the rubber soles burn off, will the book to magically grow longer before my eyes.
One musn’t wait too long before committing to the next book, though: this is how reading ruts begin. An insistence on finding a book that’s impossibly similar to the last will ultimately prove as disappointing as eating a falafel sandwich anywhere in Paris but at L’As du Fallafel, as will an arbitrarily ‘opposite’ selection when you’re still craving fried chickpeas. What’s an appropriate pining period when it comes to novels? How soon can I get back to Paris?
What I need is a rebound book, a palate cleanser. Maybe today I’ll search for a thick-but-lightweight, no-strings-attached thriller, something that can rope me in quickly, make me forget, at least temporarily, the heartbreak I felt over the last book leaving me.