Life: Book by Book
42 years ago, I started keeping a list of books that I read.
I wasn’t sure what I was getting into as I lay sprawled across the baby-blue acrylic bedspread of my antique white French provincial canopy bed from Sears.
It was at the start of what promised to be another drawn out summer in the Canadian suburbs. I had just finished Love, Dad by Evan Hunter, (which when I look at it now is a pretty racy novel for a young adolescent, or maybe not given what’s posted on Tik Tok.) One of the characters, Paul, talks about how his real education didn’t start until after he graduated from high school, and he keeps a list of books and authors that he has read to remind him of how far he has come in his self-education since then.
At the time, July 1982 to be precise, I was teetering on the edge of adolescence and increasing self-consciousness. The idea of keeping track of the books I read for posterity seemed like a good practice. I loved the idea of reading all the “great” books hoping they would somehow make me smarter. One hundred books seemed like a serious enough challenge for the intellectual I wanted to become. I made a pledge to myself to read that many in one year.
I was 13 years old that summer and seriously introverted. With badly permed red hair and large circular glasses, I read a lot of books. I could escape into them and live any sort of life that I wanted. They were also safer than people.
Today, as I look at the first entry on the list – my childish, balloon-like letters looping across the page –I am immediately transported back to my room of powder blue, where I cloistered myself, unsure of who I was and who I wanted to be (beyond what I imagined how an intellectual adult would act). I found my refuge in the books I read that summer, looking for secrets to be explained and personalities I could assume.
My reading over the course of that year reflected what I was feeling on the inside – stuck somewhere between the world of The Baby-Sitters Club series and adult fiction. The first entry on my list, right after Love Dad, is Mommie Dearest, by Christina Crawford. The first book I took off my mother’s bookshelf. Not quite an act of defiance, as my mother had given me permission to read it. But the fact that my mother had “lent” me one of her books was a testament to my burgeoning maturity.
That was also the summer I discovered Agatha Christie. My list is full of her titles, including Murder in Three Acts, And Then There Were None.
Books by S.E. Hinton, Katherine Paterson, and Judy Blume, the reigning chroniclers of adolescent angst during the early 1980s, are also on there. When I read through the list, images flash before my eyes of where I was when I read those books – whether I was in the back of our silver Chevy van as we made our annual summer pilgrimage to the West Coast, or tucked into the shade of the umbrella at the beach.
There are now 1549 books on the list. What started out as a simple year-long challenge has become a piece of my history. When I read through the list each title triggers a different memory. I am amazed at how something as simple as a book title can evoke such powerful memories.
#386, Possessions by A.S. Byatt brings back all the giddiness and anticipation of a new relationship as the twists and turns of the story became intertwined with myself and my summer love. My thoughts would keep drifting to his laughter and the twinkle in his eyes as I curled myself into the oversized floral chair in my parent’s living room.
There is #405, Blood, Tears, and Folly by Len Deighton that I packed in my overnight bag when we went on our first trip together that December. Followed by #531 One Hundred Years of Solitude by Gabriel Garcia Marquez on our honeymoon three years later.
I remember trying to race my way through the final chapters of #671 – A Problem from Hell by Samantha Powers knowing that I could go into labor any day with my first child. I didn’t make it.
#673 and #674 hold a special glow for me as I remember how proud of myself I was for finally figuring out a way to prop up both a book and my nursing daughter on the same pillow as we sat for what seemed like hours in the sunlit corner of the nursery.
#707, A Traitor to Memory by Elizabeth George was a small indulgence I allowed myself after months of slogging through heavy research tomes. I can almost taste the warm spring day when I gave myself permission to purchase “something fun” to read, after I finally handed in my dissertation proposal. My feet hardly touched the ground as I headed towards the nearest bookstore, and I was giddy as I cracked open the spine of her latest mystery. My mind immediately dove into the subtleties of the story, enjoying the break from the intricacies of quantitative data analysis.
My son was born during the middle of #712 – The Kite Runner by Khaled Hosseini. And like the title of that book, he seems to be propelled along by the wind. Slowing down only in the quiet of the early morning hours, or when we gather around the dining room table for a meal.
Difficult memories also surface as I read through the list. #776, The Shadow of the Sun, by Ryszard Kapuscinski is bathed in the greenish glow of intensive care as I recall how the vibrancy and vastness of the African continent conflicted with the modern medical equipment surrounding the bed of my 2 ½ year old son as he recovered from open-heart surgery. The margins of the book filled with scribbles as I tried to distract myself from machine beeps and the sound of his labored breathing.
I remember the swaying of the Metro North trains as I madly highlighted passages of #1173, Braving the Wilderness, by Brene Brown, on my way into New York City to finalize my divorce. So much sadness at the way a marriage of 19 years slowly fell apart. I held onto words that let me find some hope dancing around the edges of those feelings.
#1209, Happy Hours: Alcohol in a Woman’s Life by Devon Jersild is, without a doubt, the most influential book I’ve ever read. I had picked it up on a whim, fascinated by the title. I knew deep down in my soul that I was drinking too much, especially when my children were at their dad’s. This book helped me dig deep into the trauma behind my drinking. It also set me on the road to recovery.
My eyes vaguely registered the words written in #1497 Demon Copperhead, by Barbara Kingsolver, as I flew westward to the Rocky Mountains of my childhood to bury my father. I sat reading the same paragraph, over and over, with eyes teary and heart heavy. You always think there will be one more visit, one more conversation, one more Christmas. And, then all of a sudden, there isn’t.
Some people are meticulous about keeping daily journals – an ever-evolving history of their past. These journals serve as a reference for a forgotten conversation, or a vivid recollection of an experience when memory fails. I am not one of those people.
While I have made a few stumbled attempts to collect the daily happenings of my life, there is no consistency to these jottings. Instead, my memories live in this list of books that I have kept for most of my life. And while I have often regretted the absence of a written catalog of my memories—I know there are sights, and sounds, and smells that are lost forever—I am amazed at the emotions that surface as I read through my humble list of books.
I am also amazed at how far the list has come.
The books on the list, which were once a vibrant and relevant part of my life, have become nothing more than words I once read. They are a reminder of the person that I once was, and through their titles, it is possible to trace a path to the person I have become.
My reading tastes have changed and expanded over time. The authors, genres, and topics that I once immersed myself are no longer the ideas I am focused on. I am amused at the Sydney Sheldon phase I went through in middle school; the seriousness with which my friends and I took the writings of Ayn Rand in high school; and my fascination with all things Soviet in my early college years. All of these are a reminder of the person I thought I would become.
As I continue to read, I wonder what books will continue cross my path and shape my thoughts and ideas in the future. What book will keep me company when my youngest child heads to college? What book will be beside me the night of my daughter’s wedding? What will I be reading as my own time on this planet draws to a close?
Although I write these words at the age of 54 I am still unsure of where my path might lead. I officially become an empty-nester this September. My plans are to move to Minneapolis and see what a new city and region have to offer. Beyond that, I really can’t say, but I do know that books will continue to guide me along the path. And, my memories will still be captured in a single list.
