I met a friend for drinks last week, one whom I hadn’t seen in probably two or three years. Actually, that’s not entirely true. Most likely, I’ve seen her more recently–I just don’t remember the circumstances or the setting. My awful memory is not what’s important here. The point is, our meeting had all the hallmarks of your stereotypical getting-reacquainted outing. She asks what kind of music I’m listening to, and if I’ve seen this movie or that television program. She works for a publishing house, so our conversation invariably came to the topic of novels, and which ones I’m reading. Unfortunately for me, I chose to answer her inquiry with the truth. The last book I read was “The Bad Guys Won!” the story of the off-the-field antics of the 1986 New York Mets. To my complete lack of surprise, she hadn’t heard of that one. And, I go to thinking, why don’t I enjoy books anymore?
Before the baseball book (which was breezy enough for a six year old to finish in a few days), I can’t even remember the last novel that really demanded my interest. There was that book on Spacemen 3, which was pretty good. I read a graphic novel over the winter…does that count? After those two, all I recall from this past year are four or five books that remain in various stages of completion, and Ian’s old course pack from his Russian Literature class at McGill. In High School, I read all the requisite Chuck Palahniuk novels, and bought his new ones as they came out in college, but at some point I stopped caring about his output.
I like to think of myself as being literate. I browse through book reviews (albeit scantily). I even check out the best-seller list once in a while. Yet, I haven’t been interested in undertaking anything new for quite some time. So, why don’t you recommend me something?
