The Mother likes to moan at my choice in novels - fantastical, overblown dramas - but when she's looking for something to read, she comes to me to feed her addiction to books. The Mother does not like to admit it, but she is as much of a bookworm as I am. The Father knows this and has sneakily employed this knowledge in the past. He gives her a book when he has done something wrong so The Mother will be distracted for a day or two and forget to yell at him.
When she was hassling me to hurry up and come home from England, she scoffed when I said I needed time to sort and pack my belongings. I have nine and a half years worth of stuff and I had collected a lot of books in the meantime. ( Books are partly the reason why I have so little savings).
"Why don't you sell or give away your books?" she said.
"WHAT?!? Sell my precious books? I have autographed copies and special editions."
"Surely you're not going to read them all again."
Yes, I would, yes, I certainly would. My books are my friends, they are my comfort, I love them, I love their fragrant paper smell and their..........
"Where are you going to put them?" she asked.
"Uh.... I've shipped my bookcase over as well. I thought I'd put it in the dining room next to Dad's bookcase."
The Mother twitched. The Martha Stewart in her is horrified that my cheap pine bookcase will be squatting next to her dark, hand-crafted teak furniture.
The Mother has been unwell this past week. I'm not that good at cooking, so as compensation, I supply her with some books. She likes the Odd Thomas books by Dean Koontz so I rent a couple for her. (The Mother likes stories about good children). I also give her Susannah Clark's Jonathan Strange & Mr. Norrell but she soon gives up on that, saying it's too heavy and long. She has also picked up Lois McMaster Bujold's The Hallowed Hunt from the shelf. I did not plan on lending it to her because as much as I like Bujold's books, it wasn't one of her better ones and it was full of gods and magical bits which she doesn't really like.
Late last night, she comes to me again, looking for something to read. We stand beside my cheap, pine bookcase as I ponder which books to recommend to her.
"None of your depressing stories," she says.
"I don't have any depressing stories," I object.
"You know, a lot of your books are emotionally taxing. Like that one about the twins, and how the brother died, and then her mother died and the land can never be prosperous so long as...."
"Oh, you mean, The Bone Doll's Twin?" I say. "That isn't depressing.... it's very engrossing and full of drama and intrigue."
The Mother shakes her head. "No, no. I want something light and easy. And don't give me any of that Miles Vorkosigan books either."
"But those are quite light. And funny too!" I exclaim.
"Yes, but Miles is a mutant. He's short and hunchbacked. It's no fun investing all that time in an ugly hero," The Mother replies.
"But Miles has such character..."
The Mother shakes her head.
"What about Carl Hiaasen? He's quite amusing. Or Rob Grant's Incompetence? That's very good. It's laugh out loud satire," I said.
The Mother makes non-committal noises.
Finally, I pull out the latest Ian Rankin novel that I have, Fleshmarket Close. It is the 16th Inspector Rebus novel and mine is a special edition, autographed copy. I carefully take it out of its sleeve and hand it to The Mother. The protagonist of the novels is a grumpy, beer-bellied, chain-smoking Scotsman with a bad habit of getting up his boss's nose. Hee hee, I love grumpy old men. Only in books though.
The Mother is again disappointed that Mr. Rankin chose to make his hero so disagreeable but The Mother likes murder, mystery and gore, and you can find that aplenty in a detective novel, so she takes it.
When I check in on her later, The Mother is fast asleep. Fleshmarket Close is lying on my dad's study table. In The Mother's hand is a copy of The Bone Doll's Twin.
She's decided to go for depressing.
When she was hassling me to hurry up and come home from England, she scoffed when I said I needed time to sort and pack my belongings. I have nine and a half years worth of stuff and I had collected a lot of books in the meantime. ( Books are partly the reason why I have so little savings).
"Why don't you sell or give away your books?" she said.
"WHAT?!? Sell my precious books? I have autographed copies and special editions."
"Surely you're not going to read them all again."
Yes, I would, yes, I certainly would. My books are my friends, they are my comfort, I love them, I love their fragrant paper smell and their..........
"Where are you going to put them?" she asked.
"Uh.... I've shipped my bookcase over as well. I thought I'd put it in the dining room next to Dad's bookcase."
The Mother twitched. The Martha Stewart in her is horrified that my cheap pine bookcase will be squatting next to her dark, hand-crafted teak furniture.
The Mother has been unwell this past week. I'm not that good at cooking, so as compensation, I supply her with some books. She likes the Odd Thomas books by Dean Koontz so I rent a couple for her. (The Mother likes stories about good children). I also give her Susannah Clark's Jonathan Strange & Mr. Norrell but she soon gives up on that, saying it's too heavy and long. She has also picked up Lois McMaster Bujold's The Hallowed Hunt from the shelf. I did not plan on lending it to her because as much as I like Bujold's books, it wasn't one of her better ones and it was full of gods and magical bits which she doesn't really like.
Late last night, she comes to me again, looking for something to read. We stand beside my cheap, pine bookcase as I ponder which books to recommend to her.
"None of your depressing stories," she says.
"I don't have any depressing stories," I object.
"You know, a lot of your books are emotionally taxing. Like that one about the twins, and how the brother died, and then her mother died and the land can never be prosperous so long as...."
"Oh, you mean, The Bone Doll's Twin?" I say. "That isn't depressing.... it's very engrossing and full of drama and intrigue."
The Mother shakes her head. "No, no. I want something light and easy. And don't give me any of that Miles Vorkosigan books either."
"But those are quite light. And funny too!" I exclaim.
"Yes, but Miles is a mutant. He's short and hunchbacked. It's no fun investing all that time in an ugly hero," The Mother replies.
"But Miles has such character..."
The Mother shakes her head.
"What about Carl Hiaasen? He's quite amusing. Or Rob Grant's Incompetence? That's very good. It's laugh out loud satire," I said.
The Mother makes non-committal noises.
Finally, I pull out the latest Ian Rankin novel that I have, Fleshmarket Close. It is the 16th Inspector Rebus novel and mine is a special edition, autographed copy. I carefully take it out of its sleeve and hand it to The Mother. The protagonist of the novels is a grumpy, beer-bellied, chain-smoking Scotsman with a bad habit of getting up his boss's nose. Hee hee, I love grumpy old men. Only in books though.
The Mother is again disappointed that Mr. Rankin chose to make his hero so disagreeable but The Mother likes murder, mystery and gore, and you can find that aplenty in a detective novel, so she takes it.
When I check in on her later, The Mother is fast asleep. Fleshmarket Close is lying on my dad's study table. In The Mother's hand is a copy of The Bone Doll's Twin.
She's decided to go for depressing.
Comments
Oh and that's gotta be my favourite book recommendation post you've made Kere :D hee haa