books

My father reads a lot. A LOT. He's a tiny bit obsessive about his books and even more so about his music. When I jokingly say that my father owns every cd known to man... well, keep in mind there's always some truth in humor. He's a little more discerning on his books. He particularly likes Southern authors, anyone from Faulkner to Grisham. I think he should start a blog. It would be a very interesting read. Perhaps I'll suggest it to him. As long as he doesn't start reading mine... I like my anonymity. Keeps me honest.

He has a booth at an antique mall here in my town where he sells books that he's read and any other good finds he comes across. Every time he comes up to visit (a couple times a month) he's brings boxes of books-- some from his shelf, some from the used bookstore in his town, some from ebay. Some signed, mostly first editions, some particularly interesting books even if not a collectible edition. Usually Southern but not exclusively. There are always 2 or 3 books in those boxes meant for me and not the booth. As a result, my nightstand looks like this:

And it's kind of low right now. I'm reading the book on top, a collection of short stories called Victory over Japan by Ellen Gilchrist. Her writing reminds me a lot of mine (only... professional) in that it's very matter-of-fact and conversational. They're the kind of stories that merge and fade into your memory and become your own stories, almost like you lived them, and you relate them to friends in a way that implies you were a part of them. And even though you start that conversation with "in this book I just read," you still feel like you're telling your own story, not some fictional character's. No, I did not lose my virginity in a red tube dress by the side of a river at age 14 to some complete stranger (hot though he may have been) just to get back at my overbearing father, but a part of me feels like I did. 

Pride and Prejudice is always in that stack. When I feel like I'm losing myself, I pick it up, and there I am. There are books in that stack I'll never finish. Barack Obama's Audacity of Hope, Gore Vidal's Empire, anything John Grisham. They're not my style. I'll start them so that I can tell my dad I gave them a chance, but I'll quickly move on, explaining that I picked up another one he gave me and fell in love with it. And he's ok with that, as long as I keep reading something. He's just happy to have someone with whom to talk about these books he loves. He has my little brother for music, me he has for books.