“There is no mistaking a real book when one meets it. It is like falling in love.”
― Christopher Morley, Pipefuls
When was the last time you truly fell in love with a book? I have been charmed by many books this year, most memorably
The Book of Proper Names by Amélie Nothomb.
I will do a review of that one as soon as I can because it is well worth reading but seems to have gone largely unnoticed.
But when did I last truly fall in love with a book? I really am not sure. I think the answer is probably about a year ago, when I read Tess of the d'Urbervilles by Thomas Hardy. Despite the incredible sadness of the story, there are few books more beautifully written than Tess, and I read compulsively, mesmerized by the humming of the bees in the meadows, drinking in the English country air, seeing it all as clearly as if I were there and, of course, wishing that I was. I was madly, drunkenly in love with Wessex, and even the tragic ending of the tale did nothing to mar the memory of days spent lazily wandering through green pastures with only the clanging of cowbells to encroach upon the peaceful birdsong.
And yet, it will be years before I read this book again. Sometimes it is sacrilege to encroach too soon upon ground made holy by beauty and sacrifice, even if it is fictional.
What book were you last in love with? Please comment and tell me!
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