We sat at my mother’s dining table surrounded by family. Tony extolled the virtues of a favored book. He narrowed his eyes and gave me his most professorial look over the rims of his black eyeglass frames.
“You should read it,” he told me. This was not the first, or even the tenth, time he had said this to me. I laughed and told everyone at the table how Tony once had spent the entire six-hour drive from San Francisco to Irvine describing the entire story to me.
My sister-in-law nodded along. “It’s a long book,” she and Tony responded, full of logic.
Later, as we lay in bed, I tried to explain my reluctance. It’s not about the book, it’s about the expectation. What if, I explained, what if I don’t like it? Or worse, what if, because of my post-traumatic-stress-like inability to read for enjoyment, I can’t finish it? What if I disappoint you?
I used to read a novel a day, but ever since my divorce, I haven’t been able to read novels for pleasure. I struggle to find anything that can hold my interest. I get about halfway through a book but can’t seem to finish them. I don’t like the characters, or the writing is too dense or, worse, overfull of metaphor and in dire need of an editor.
It’s a long book, I told him. It’s not you. It’s me. I liked what I’ve read of it so far, but it’s so hard for me to finish a novel these days, and this one is too important to you. I was afraid to start it.
“Do you mean that?” he asked. I nodded. It’s not easy for someone who has always identified herself as a reader to admit to a reading disability.
He sat up, slid out of bed. I heard the smacking sound of his feet as they hit the cold tile floor. Smack, smack, smack. A door creaked. The glass doors of the bookcase slid open and shut. I steeled myself for a battle of wills, in no mood to dive into a novel that is six inches thick in paperback form, with writing as dense (if not more so) as the books I read everyday, all day long, at work.
The smacking sound of Tony’s bare feet grew louder until our bedroom door creaked open again.
Quietly, softly, he set a slim volume on the quilt next to me. It’s a little novel, its cover protected by library plastic. He slid back into bed and pulled me into a spooning embrace.
“I like the other book,” he whispered, his beard scratching my neck. “But this is my favorite. I’ve had that copy for twenty years.”
I picked it up, read the first page. I giggled at a joke, and I kept reading, engrossed, my husband curled around me and my feet tucked between his legs for warmth.
“Thank you,” he whispered against my ear, and I thought, no, thank you.
Oh, this is so, so sweet.
this made me cry.
Also. You write beautifully.
I would love it if you finished Cryptonomicon. It’s a master class in Stephenson, however, and totally unfair of me to expect you to dive into it.
You have to love math, computers, cryptography, obscure WWII military history, vivid references to tropical diseases, the understanding that several of the characters are written in a way that infers they have Asperger’s syndrome, physics humor, military humor, alchemy, and the willingness to follow over 10 major characters and several dozen minor characters over 2 different timelines that span WWII and the founding of the internet.
It’s a fantastic novel, honestly one of the best ever written, but not for the uninitiated.
Bridge of Birds on the other hand, is perfect. It’s 300 pages of humor and sadness that makes you cry with joy at the end.
I’ll get to it someday, but it might not be until after I retire from a job that requires me to read all day, everyday.
I love you.
Marriage rules, right?
Good marriages do.
An important distinction, I’m sorry. I sure hope they do.