Lit-ra-toure

In lieu of talking about boring old me yet again (I actually don't think I'm boring at all, and I've got the psychotherapy bills to prove it. I think I'm a train wreck of fascination) I'm going to talk about books. Because, if there's one thing we can do for the other members of our humanity-race-people-friends, it's share good books (and also talk about reality TV, but one thing at a time). I'm not going to go over my favorite books, because there's only one, and it's Toni Morrison's Song of Solomon, and if you haven't read it, then you should, right now.

OK, now that we got rid of those losers. Most of the time, I pick up a new book and read the first few sentences and think, oh, OK.  This might be interesting.  Sometimes I read them and think, oh, no, this is not for me.  But every once in a great while, I read the first sentence and the feeling is of great relief.  Like, oh, it's you! I'm so glad it's you! It's the feeling of sinking into an older, but still stable, couch, a glass of wine in one hand, pretzels on the table, and one or three girlfriends curled up around you. I have no idea what's going to happen, this feeling tells me, but I know it's going to go on for hours, and it's going to be enlightening, and funny, and sad. I'm going to discover things about my friends that I didn't know before, and through this I'm going to realize ME, TOO! And sometimes I'll tell them and sometimes I won't, but the feeling is foggy and warm, but not too warm. And suddenly we're not all disconnected amoebas floating through the fluid of the world-- we're all connected.  We're not alone. When I walk out of this room, I'm going to feel fortified for life again.

I started a new book yesterday, Let's Take the Long Way Home: A Memoir of Friendship by Gail Caldwell, recommended by my professor and friend Michelle Herman, who has yet to steer me wrong (it's uncanny, really). I offer the first sentence as evidence: "I can still see her standing on the shore, a towel around her neck and a post-workout cigarette in her hand-- half Gidget and half splendid splinter..." (8). Oh, man. Commence sinking. And, as always happens when I find a great book (and by great I mean one that calls to me, I don't mean great in the sense of Moby Dick or Uncle Tom's Cabin), when I take a break from turning page after page, not even noticing that the pages are turning, I glance down and realize, Oh, no, I'm already halfway through! I have to stop! I have to ration the pages, because soon they'll be gone, and then what will I have? Months, maybe years of reading "smart" books, or funny books, or good books, or shitty books, before I find another one like this. But, of course, twenty-four hours later the pages are gone, and I can't get them back, and I don't even want to start another book because what's the point? It's a kind of grief. I'll go bike riding, or start a new cleaning project.  I'll depend on something else for a while, because I can't pick up another book and know immediately that it's not good enough.  Sometimes I try an old favorite I haven't read for a while, and it's great, but you can never get that feeling back.  It's like a muted version of that feeling.  Oh, yes, this book changed my life, at least for a little while.  I remember. Those were good times.

I'm going to be honest, because it's not like a bunch of people are going to discover this-- I usually only love (and I mean this kind of love) books by women.  This is totally inappropriate, and I shouldn't even say it, but it's true.  I love books by men.  I love lots of books by men. But it's a totally different kind of love.  It's a good love-- it's a love that makes a difference in my life.  But usually it's the kind of love I feel for a particularly precocious student.  Man, that kid is smart.  Funny, knows his shit, has some really jaw-dropping stuff to say. I'm delighted.  But it's not the female-friendship love.

It's true (for me) that I have a lot of male friends, but they can't be my female friends. I can't describe why. I've thought about it.  There's always this extra layer.  The closest I can call it is sexual tension, even though that's not right, because these aren't male friends I'd ever sleep with, or even think about sleeping with. But there's something there that's different.  Not bad different-- my best friend is a man-- I have lots of great male friends that I wouldn't exchange for a girl even on my worst hair days. But it's different. And, in my deepest core, there's something about my female friends, and my books by female authors, that sinks deeper into me.  The conversations sink deeper. But don't tell the boys I said so.