It’s been years since I read Milan Koundera’s (The Unbearable Lightness of Being, The Joke etc) Laughable Loves but when I read something about a certain character of his I knew this is it! Don’t get me wrong! I have little in common with the womanizer Dr. Havel (a secondary character in the book) but when it comes to his attitude towards women… it’s the exact same as my attitude towards books. To make a long story short there is a scene in the book where Dr. Havel shows his indifference -- to say it politely -- to a nurse who openly expresses her desire for him. A colleague asks him why on earth he denies Nurse Elisabet. After all, Dr. Havel Is Like Death; He Takes Everything. At this Dr. Havel (and Kundera) replies with the exceptional dialogue: "Chief, don't get mad at me for that. It's not because she isn't pretty and is getting on in years. Believe me, I've had women still uglier and far older." "Yes, it's a well-known fact about you: you're like death; you take everything. But if you take everything, why don't you take Elisabet?" "Maybe," said Havel, "it's because she shows her desire so conspicuously that it resembles an order. You say that I am like death in relation to women. But not even death likes to be given an order." Well, this describes my situation with books to a tee. I read everything! (and I don't like orders.) From experimental literature (no comment) to the lowest forms of printed material-- the ones where the ink stains your fingers and the paper is so thin that it‘s almost see-through. I can’t help myself. I think it’s a disease (or a secret power) where every written text works like a beacon for me. When I see written text it’s as if I see an image, a neon sign trying to lure me with its hypnotizing, subconscious “Read Me” message. I’ve been a victim of my vulnerability more times than I can count. I’ve enjoyed Dostoyevsky and Austen and then a trashy novel the way a bulimic eats a fine Mont Blanc -- the dessert... and then devours a greasy burger. My saving grace is that I enjoy both type of readings enormously! For different reasons. In different ways. (To be honest, bad stories are more inspiring than good ones but that’s another post…) So, Gabriel Garcia Marquez? Hemingway? Rowling? King? Tolstoy? Mary Webb? Dumas? Verne? Vonnegut? Meyers? Susan Elizabeth Philips? Balogh? Kleypas? Gaskell? Dürrenmatt? Green? They’re all there, very much alive, partying inside my head. No discriminations. No prejudices. Just Pride. I can’t say that I enjoy them all the same. I haven’t read and reread all of their stories. But I’ve been richer because of them. Wealthier and believe me… healthier. I have even read shifters stories (I’m still waiting for a good one in this genre and I‘m certain that it CAN BE DONE because in a way this could a be a new Dr Jekyll and Mr. Hyde crossroads with Lady Chatterley‘s Lover -- you know the “uncivilized side” of man etc etc.) *At this point I have a ridiculous confession to make: I was relieved to find out that this kind of stories had heroes who can shift into animals. I guess this is a Twilight side effect along with a Game of Thrones influence (how many dragons are out there?) Anyway, at first and getting used to the awful Cover-Language (another post needed for that) that has nothing but men with abs on the covers -- turning reading a book into a public disgrace-- I had made some instant connections: A man with a naked torso = A romance. A man and a woman in a semi-clothed state = erotica (more or less). Two men = gay novel. According to that logic what a man and a bear or a man and a wolf means? (You get the point.) Okay, the misunderstanding lasted seconds (until I read the first summary) but you can bet my eyes popped out. Anyway, that leads us to the soul-searching question: What kind of reader are you? Which is the best and the worst book you’ve read? Okay, maybe not the absolute best and the absolute worst --that’s a tough question-- but you get the point. Don’t be shy to share...
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September 2018
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