Terrible Book Friends

Last week I finished reading Sean Wilsey’s Oh The Glory of it All. You must read it, especially if you live in the City, where most of the memoir takes place. I learned that Dede Wilsey is a frightening person, major museum donations notwithstanding.

Like all memoirs, the book is about self-discovery. But, unlike all memoirs, it strikes me that this is a real document of truth.

Not that Wilsey’s book is supposed to teach some kind of lesson. I just find it beautiful how apparent it becomes that we cannot change or grow until we are ready.

I think I learned some about patience, most especially with myself, and forgiveness, most especially for Jack.

Funny how books can do this.

But I go and make everything about me, don’t I?

I don’t know if that’s just how we really understand the world, or if it’s just plainly shortsighted. I suppose it doesn’t really matter.

This is what I mean when I say that books are my friends. Like the best of friends (like my best friends) the ones that make it onto this list of mine are unfailingly honest, and reflective, and patient. And especially challenging.

So now I’ve moved on to Don DeLillo’s White Noise.

It’s heartbreaking to read. Every single line is a poem.

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