Book connections

There have been many tributes to Robert Parker and J.D. Salinger lately, and while I was reading some of them, I was struck by the memories I had about discovering those writers.  I first read The Godwulf Manuscript when I found it in a shopping bag full of books a neighbor gave us.  The other books in the bag were by Sidney Sheldon and Harold Robbins, both of whom I was forbidden to read (until my parents left the house, anyway).  Neither Sheldon nor Robbins became favorites (though I did occasionally rifle through them, looking for “good parts”), but Parker wrote about places near where I lived.  I grew up on that stretch of Route 1 north of Boston populated with plastic cows, orange dinosaurs, and a giant neon cactus; I loved trying to figure out where Spenser was.  Parker also sent me to other writers, like Spenser, with an 'S.'  Later, it got me thinking you could write about things that were familiar. 

Love those connections.  Love those memories.

J.D. Salinger was never a favorite of mine, but my first interaction with The Catcher in the Rye was important.  Not because Holden Caulfield's adventures left me feeling sad and hollow—often a desirable quality for teenage readers—but because reading it was part of a deal with the chair of my high school English department, Mr. B.  He saw me reading Ray Bradbury (I think it was Something Wicked This Way Comes) and made a face.  He didn't like science fiction, he said, and said I should read Catcher.  I said I would if he read the Bradbury.  The next day, we traded notes.  In this case, it wasn't the books so much as the interaction that meant something to me, being treated like an adult, at least to the extent that he was willing to challenge me.

My grandmother gave me a copy of Little Women with a sentimental 19th-century cover for Christmas.  The next year, she gave me Little Men, then the next, Jo's Boys.  It never occurred to me to look for the next books on my own, even though I knew there were more:  I waited for my grandmother to give them to me.   I read those books about twenty times a piece, and while they look garish on the shelf between Aeschylus and Sherman Alexie, I'll never give them away.

Everyone has memories, not just of particular authors or books, but of the contexts in which  you first encountered them.  The time that someone said, “I can't believe you haven't read X—you'll love it”—and you waited while they dug out a copy to loan you.   And you actually did love it.  What are your favorite book moments?

Comments

[Lil Gluckstern]

When I was a little girl, I lived in New York City, and my Grandpa used to go to auctions in Coney Island and buy me boxes of books. It was like Christmas! For years, I kept those old yellowing books, and today, books are my addiction. Good literature, non fiction and mysteries, guilty pleasures like historical romances, all started with Little golden Books and classics won for me at estate auctions.

[Sheila Connolly]

My mother gave me a copy of Little Women when I was sick in bed with measles, and I've often wondered if the fact that I read it while feverish is why it is so imprinted on my brain. Pieces of it still pop randomly into my head--like carrying baked potatoes as handwarmers on a cold New England morning. Oh, and I still have that copy of the book.

[Dana]

Lil, what a great story! What a great grandpa!

Sheila, it's those sick-bed books that really do imprint themselves. My first Nancy Drew, The Mystery of Shadow Ranch (I almost wrote "Canyon Ranch") got me through bronchitis and got me hooked on mystery.