Books Over Men

originally posted 7/22/07

Yesterday afternoon, I fell in love. If there are two worldly things that I love shamelessly, they are books and men. Of course, I'm fond of the usual "girl things" like Godiva chocolates, non-ergonomic shoes, or leather watches, but none of these paltry commodities call for my possession as persuasively as the aforementioned loves. Although I judge both by their cover, I pay attention only after a quick skim arouses my desire for emotional connection.

People mistakenly assume that my love for literature makes me an excellent source for book recommendations. WRONG. It is at this time that I will make three overripe confessions:
1) I have horrible taste in novels. This, combined with my commitment issues, results in
2) my inability to finish the novels that I purchase or borrow, which culminates in my sad admittance that
3) I've finished less than eight novels (besides those of the Harry Potter persuasion) during the past 2-3 years.

My ability to love, therefore, is disproportionate to the refinement of my taste and the continuance of my attraction. No amount of reviews or word-of-mouth reputations can make me finish a novel if my infatuation were confined to that first skim. Oftentimes, I find that the best-enjoyed novels are those that I read begrudgingly, if only to satisfy a course requirement or to silence a nagging recommender. It is with these initially unremarkable novels that I enjoy an intimate love affair, one that simultaneously polishes my diminished veneration for literature and restores my faith in its enchantments.

And now to the topic of greater interest - men. Ah, men. If only I could put them away as easily as I do an unsatisfying read. Books, I fall in love with quickly but at least abandon with even greater rapidity. I won't be as hasty to attach the blame solely to my seemingly horrible taste; no, I blame my heart's unrelenting longing to meld with something, anything to make it feel capable of intimacy with a foreigner familiar only in its own yearnings.

Call me a masochist, but oftentimes, the books I cherish the most are those that inflict the most pain - whose pages echo the grim musings of one not unlike myself. As I was saying earlier, yesterday, I fell in love with Alain de Botton's Essays on Love. While I hesitate to say that it's a good book (because I haven't read it), the portions that I did read tempted me with the prospect of someone who understands, even if that someone is really a 200-page something.

A good book is, perhaps, the most faithful companion to a lonely heart. It is also the quickest cure for denial. I approach my personal demons like I do their images as depicted in scary movies - with my head crouched and one hand covering my eyes. I attribute the worst to the the ghoulish shrieking of televised victims, my self-inflicted blindness doing little to erase the resonating horror. Good literature captures those demons with words and forces me, the reader, to confront them vicariously through another. Perhaps, I think to myself, if the author were able to produce such a marvelous piece of art from so grotesque a source, I can do the same. With the encouragement of a good book, I too, can fight these forces beleaguering me with self-doubt and depression.

I am, admittedly, a participant in a cursed love affair with books. As much as I love them, I can't profess to be well-read or knowledgeable about English literature. I have never read The Bell Jar. I haven't touched Hamlet. Yet somehow, something prevents me from adopting a defeatist attitude. I don't actually read, I tell myself, but I am not a victim. I am not a failure. As they say, you can't fail if you don't give up.

I might not experience much success with books, a literary career, and yes, even love in the form of human romantic aspirations, but as melancholy as it all feels during solitary summer evenings, I can't bring myself to admit unhappiness at this seemingly sorry state.

Perhaps the problem this time isn't denial, but the simple fact that I am not actually sorry - and perhaps, when I'm estranged from all contradictory thought, I can admit without hesitation that that isn't a problem at all.