My mother and father didn't read books, they read magazines. So while I can attribute my magazine obsession to them (from Oprah to People to The New Yorker to Rolling Stone) my book obsession I attribute to boredom, and confusion, and the desire for a safe haven in a complex childhood. This article in
The Times today about a son's book club with his dying mother, touched me tremendously even though I couldn't relate to doing it with a parent.
There is something very precious about a tiny book club of two. I've felt this way with my friend Suzie, who has incredible taste in books, and my sister, who is the only person who understood all the reasons I sobbed over The Lovely Bones.
Book clubs aren't for everyone. But the right book can bind you forever, and give you memories as vivid as a shared vacation.
