It seems like I’ll be starting this book over the weekend. I bought it a couple of weeks ago but haven’t been able to read it yet because Gloria took possession of it and wouldn’t put it down. She has now called me at work to say she’s reached the end and she’s impatient for me to read it so she can talk to me about it.
The fact that Gloria feels that way about a book is significant. In the years I’ve known her, the books she’s read could probably be counted on the fingers of one and a half hands. The books she’s REALLY been enthusiastic about would make up the half hand.
I’m not sure why I bought it. I’d never heard of the book before seeing it in a local shop.
Maybe I was falling for the warned about trap of judging it by the cover – or it might have been the compelling collection of old, unusual photos scattered throughout its pages – or maybe the general appearance of the binding and the book’s physical weight made it seem more impressive than the majority of books on the shelf…
More than an impressive cover, I can be seduced by a weighty book and tend to think a book’s weight can reflect the quality of its content. No matter how many times that’s been proven wrong, the idea remains unshakeable.
So this weekend it seems like I’ll be putting aside my current non-fiction diet to make a start on the book Gloria found so compelling.