A book courtship ritual

This sounds odd, what I'm about to say. At least, I think it does. I wrote this blog entry once and deleted it because it didn't come out right. Several friends emailed to say, hey! what happened to that thing? So I thought, what the heck? It's my blog. I can say anything I want.

I started off by saying that I love the heft of books. The weight of them in my hands. And I do. But what I meant to express is that it struck me the other day, rather forcibly, that I do an entire getting-to-know-you ritual when I pick up a book for the first time. It never varies. I perform the same series of actions every time. Having realized it, I know that it stems from a lifetime of reading. I can spot a potential good book from looking at the spine. I get a feeling, an impulse, a response to type, color, title - even the name of the author can attract me.


But until the other day, when I spotted The Thousand Autumns of Jacob de Zoet by David Mitchell on the new book shelf at our library, I'd never realized it. I'd had that book on reserve for a few weeks. I didn't expect to get it for several more weeks. To discover a copy that had somehow slipped through the system was thrilling.

I took it off the shelf. Oh, my God, I thought. I have a book ritual. It goes like this. Every time:

I pick the book up. I feel the weight. I notice the edges on the pages; smooth, or ragged in that nice old-fashioned way? That Charles Dickens might have been here, sort of fashion.

I look at the cover. Run my hand over it. What does it tell me about what I'm considering reading? Book covers - when they're good - are extraordinary. Bad? and be you six or sixty, they can kill a book just like - snap! - that.

Next, I turn the book over. Did any writers who I admire like it? What did they say about it? How come so many people who I don't know seem to be endorsing books these days? If I don't know any of them, I may well put the book back on the shelf. Sad, but true. If there are review excerpts from places like The Guardian or The Independent, I'm excited. They give the book an advantage. I have to admit to a slight prejudice in favor of writers from Great Britain. Another sad truth.

I flip to the back, inside flap. What does the author look like? What else have they written? Won any awards? How come most of the writers selling books these days are either ridiculously young or incredibly pretty? What's with that?

I turn the book back over to the front cover. I open it. I read the title page. The copyright page. The dedication. The act of slowly turning the pages is a pleasure. The paper, the color of the paper, the weight of it - all combine to inform me about the book.

I get to the first page. I read the first sentence. I'm in love, or I'm not. It comes home with me, or it doesn't. Ruthless, ruthless reader.

Like a single woman in a bar, being approached by a stranger. One look, one word out of his mouth, and he's either a dead man or not. I remember those days. I never realized how ruthless a process it was. But now, at my age, having picked up Mitchell's book and recognized the bald-faced courtship dance I perform ...

I fell in love this time. I was right to. Wonderful book. Amazing writing. Incredible story. God only knows what might have happened if our first meeting had taken place in Gleason's on the corner of Columbus Avenue and 78th street in Manhattan, oh, so long ago ...