The timing was perfect. Summer was here, I had just finished my latest book and I needed something new to occupy my thoughts. After looking them over, I shrugged, unimpressed but happy to have some spare reading material. They weren’t books that I would have chosen for myself, but they would do.
The first book, a story of four unlikely friends who find themselves in the throws of midlife, was a quick and almost disheartening read. I moved through it and was ready to pick up something new. Next up was a book that I probably would not have chosen for myself, but one that I’m glad I had the chance to read. It caused me to consider my dreamy tendency toward wanderlust and my reasons for choosing a life of practicality. It’s unlikely that anyone else whose read this book – The Arsonist – has taken away those same thoughts from it, but I suppose every book is like a work of art: we all see something different.
Yesterday I started reading another in the stack of books that my husband brought home. Truthfully, I started this one out of pure desperation. It just didn’t sound like a book that I would enjoy reading – certainly not one that I would willingly choose to bring home on my own.
Sometimes those turn out to be the best books.
I’ve barely cracked the spine on this one and I’m hooked. Every chapter seems to start with a memory – a short conversation that, years later, seems somehow poignant. Immediately, this drew me in. This is how my mind works. This is how I remember. Most days I can’t remember where I was yesterday, yet I might recall a note, a gesture, a conversation from a month ago, five years ago or even twenty five years ago that somehow seems relevant. A moment that now, looking back, seems like a pivotal moment in the life that has become mine.
I like this book.
I’ll offer my notably unprofessional opinion on The Truth About The Harry Quebert Affair when I’m through. For now, I’m off to do some late night summer reading.
It’s the simple things that make me happy.