Ten Books

Ten Books
by Robert Kallansa

Blah, blah, blah! She rambled on about her wonderful husband. Yadda, yadda, yadda! She grumbled about her unreasonable sister. I could be starting a book, rather than sitting in this dump of a Mexican restaurant, providing an audience for this therapy session. So distant. Reading, running, drowning—just about anything would have been far preferable to that scene.

I’m going to start reading a book every week, I thought and took out a pen to start a queue of reads on a napkin. The second book in the Dune series by Frank Herbert. Paradise by Toni Morrison.

“What are you doing?” she asked.

“Writing myself a note to email you after Christmas.”

She only briefly interrupted her story about the terrific way her husband designs golf courses to agree that I should email her immediately after the holidays.

* * * * *

I am always astonished when someone tells me, “Oh, I don’t read.” What? Sometimes I hear, “I haven’t read a book since high school.” It’s a concept that I don’t comprehend and an unfortunate reflection of the American lifestyle. Television triumphs over and tramples on the written page. I love to read. It’s a singular joy.

Scanning the bookshelf in my apartment, I fished for the napkin in my back pocket, but it was gone. Already read it! Don’t care anymore! Is this mine? Ah-ha! John Updike’s Trust Me. This will be number one on my new list—a collection of short stories, all by Updike, exploring the theme of trust. I bought this book twenty years ago, for whatever reason I can’t recall. If I’d only read one paragraph a day, I would have finished it while Reagan was still in office.

Number two? Wait a minute. There’s a book on the coffee table. What is it? Laura Coltelli’s Winged Words—a collection of interviews with Native American writers. (You know, they just call themselves Indians.) This book was originally due back to the library months ago. I renew it online every few weeks, hoping that I’ll have a moment to finish it. Definitely number two.

The Berlin Stories by Christopher Isherwood will be third on my list. I almost didn’t see it there, hiding under a lamp. Not too long ago, I read Isherwood’s A Meeting by the River and was captivated by his campy, sardonic observations. River is on loan to me from a dear friend, though now estranged. Actually, he suggested that I make this list years ago. I should have listened.

“I can’t wait until you start taking classes,” he told me, “on top of work and friends and life. Then I hope you see what it’s like—never having time.” It was one of the last times we spoke.

* * * * *

There are two books in my bag: The Good Earth by Pearl S. Buck and One Hundred Years of Solitude by Gabriel Garcia Marquez—both Oprah’s Book Club selections and numbers four and five on my reading list. I carry them with me everywhere—eternally optimistic that I’ll have a few moments to pour over them while I’m waiting for a bus or sitting in the park on some gray afternoon. Funny thing is I don’t take the bus anymore. It’s too loud. And I don’t go to the park without a reason.

* * * * *

Almost twenty years ago, I met Toni Morrison. She was lecturing on campus, talking about her experiences writing, reading from Song of Solomon, and signing books. I had just finished her first book The Bluest Eye. Listening to Morrison discuss her art, I was transfixed—awed by her presence. I blew off the rest of my day to follow her around.

When it came time for the book signing, I bought the four titles that I didn’t have and presented all five of them to her. (At that time, she had only published five books.) My copy of The Bluest Eye is paperback. It was a text for a literature class. That day I bought Sula, Song of Solomon, and Tar Baby in hardback, but I ran short of money and had to buy Beloved in paperback. It’s one of the great regrets of my life—my signed copy of Beloved is a paperback. But it’s precious to me nonetheless. On the other hand, having The Bluest Eye in paperback doesn’t bother me one bit. That little book introduced me to Morrison and cemented a budding love of literature that has carried me. I cherish that little book. When I loan it out to people, I’m all sweaty palms until it comes home.

* * * * *

Next to my bed are five titles. On top is Lao Tzu’s Tao Te Ching translated by Ursula K. LeGuin. It’s a poetic translation of that spiritual tome that means so much to me. I’ve read it a hundred times, but it’s one of those books that you’ll never finish reading because you start it over before you’re done—a love affair. I keep a more scholarly translation by John C. H. Wu next to LeGuin’s. Wu’s translation has the original Chinese characters, which are beautiful. I sometimes smile at the awkwardness of Wu’s literal translations compared to LeGuin’s eloquent lines, but Wu’s book is not to be dismissed. Both of these translations will jointly comprise my number six—forever.

On the floor is a collection of science fiction short stories titled Redshift, edited by Al Sarrantonio. I nearly finished it a year ago, but the dust on the jacket is so thick now. What’s happened to my friend Janie from Elizabeth Hand’s story “Cleopatra Brimstone?” This will be my number seven, but I’ll finish it first since I’m so close to the end.

On the bottom of this pile are two erotic vampire books that I bought to complete my membership with a mail-order book club. Masters of Midnight and Vampire Thrall. I’ve read most of the former, but I don’t think I’ll revisit it—bad writing. As for the latter, the jacket boasts this enticement: “The vampire who loved Christ—is back. And he’s bolder and sexier than ever.” Neither of these will make my list—can’t spare the numbers.

* * * * *

My dear friend warned me about not having time for friends or reading and I thought he was judging me. I’d just come off a ten-year drunk, enrolled in college again, and was feeling like I had a second chance. Five years later, I understand what he was trying to tell me. What I wouldn’t give to have an hour or two for my personal reading or a cup of coffee with a dear friend, though now estranged.

What if? What if our lives were comfortably spent sowing our minds and experiences with the seeds of a golden crop of literature? What if instead of slaving away at pedantic jobs that don’t really matter, what if each of us could read a book a day? I suppose, realistically, that the machinery of our civilization would grind to a quick halt before I could get through the laborious introduction to Truman Capote’s Music for Chameleons—number eight on my list. Still, it’s a beautiful dream.

* * * * *

I found that napkin in the laundry basket this afternoon. Herbert and Morrison—pushed back, rounding out a list of ten books.

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