Happy National Book Lovers Day to me! And to you, of course.
I am a book lover. I think I’d feel like a fake if I worked for a company called BookTrib and wasn’t someone who authentically loves to read. Seriously, would you want to read something about books written by someone who’s apathetic, or even actively disdainful, of books? I think not. I certainly wouldn’t.
So, this disclaimer is to assure you that this article has been written by (and edited by, because my coworkers all actively delight in books as well) someone who has an active library card, a reading list growing at a terrifying rate and plans her trips around visits to the best bookstores in town. You, book lover, are seen.
I grew up on books, have befriended books, battled books, belittled books and beloved books throughout my life. It’s a relationship that will never require closure. Sometimes, the world swirls like a snowglobe, and my perspective shifts with harsh alacrity, but one thing that increased maturity has taught me is that you’re never too jaded to access your imagination. Insatiable childhood curiosity? Pick up a book. Moving to a new state? Pick up a book. Starting college? You’re definitely gonna have to pick up some books. A pandemic? You know what to do.
So here are some that serve as pushpins on the poster-board-roadmap of my reading journey. Sure, maybe some other books have had more literary import, personal resonance and intellectual provocation, but these are the sticky ones that hold together my motivation to open, commit to and finish yet another novel.
Here’s to doing so again and again. Here’s to that obnoxiously long reading list. Here’s to you if you share the story.
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The American Girl books by Valerie Tripp
When I was very young, my Mom, who holds a Ph.D. in history, probably thought that these were an ideal way to sneak in a lesson on her favorite subject. Back in the day, the American Girls were far more modest, demure and retiring young women; there were only eight, with six books each. As time went on, more characters were added, some were detracted, and the universe expanded into the world-wide-web.
I thereby grew up, vicariously, in a culture and time far removed from my own, back to the World War II home front, further back to the Civil War era, still further to the start of the Revolutionary War long before Hamilton made it trendy and even back to an America before it was “discovered.” This past Christmas, I reread the slight volumes for each girl that are set around the holidays, and it was even more comforting and nostalgic than I imagined it would be. This time it wasn’t just the nation’s history but my own, too.
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The Harry Potter Series by J.K. Rowling
Some books get so much good press that you think they can’t possibly live up to the hype. When friends began geeking out about this guy called Harry Potter, instead of experiencing FOMO (fear of missing out) or peer pressure, I figured my reading level surpassed whatever drivel the other kids were into. Also, I had no particular inclination to read a whole series about a magical boy. I guess I was pretentious before I even knew what pretentious meant.
I’m fuzzy on the details, but I think a trusted confidant told me to get over myself, and if so, I owe her a lot. Colonial America seemed like another world, but Hogwarts gave new meaning to the phrase. To this day, I know no other books that have so permeated my life. I reread them a million times, had favorite chapters that got so worn the pages fell out, waited impatiently for the next movie to be released and then spent long happy hours discussing why said movies didn’t quite do the books justice. Harry Potter taught me never to judge a book by its popularity, and that no, I’m not too cool to know my Hogwarts House (it’s Ravenclaw).
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The Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants by Ann Brashares
When people ask me what my favorite book is I always feel a little self-conscious if I mention this series. While not exactly erudite, I guarantee that they are profoundly meaningful: at least to me. Enduring a mid-high school move to a friendless state, a sisterhood was exactly what I needed when I needed it and, as it turns out, is timeless enough to be so again and again. I have a little of each protagonist in me, and the multifaceted points of view validated the various parts of my personality and dimmed the loneliness.
A final book in the series, Sisterhood Everlasting, jumps to the girls turning 30; now, in my twenties, the nuances and transformations each went through as she matured still provide solace and a soft place to land. I’ve gotten into the habit of reading the whole series every summer, always stumbling upon another passage to make me laugh or cry. If a book can give you friends when you need them most, these books gave me four who I’ll have for life. That’s a pretty good deal.
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The Iliad by Homer
I entered college as a biology major, willfully disregarding the fact that my Critical Reading SAT score was way out of my math score’s league and that I’d excelled in AP English classes while floundering in my science ones. Meanwhile, all freshmen had to take a Great Books course, so I sat down in what I thought would be the final chapter of my required reading. First up, The Iliad. I loved Greek myths (Percy Jackson, anyone?) but ancient poetry about war in a now-dead language … how great could it be?
Well, that was it for me. Thanks to a stellar professor and the impeccably lyrical translation work of Robert Fagles, the Trojan war became personal peace. My hand, typically hidden under the desk in classes past, now shot into the air with who-is-this-and-what-have-you-done-with-Judy confidence. I never suspected that I’d change my major after falling in love with a very old poem, but somehow a girl who thought reading was a relaxing hobby said yes to four years of footnotes.
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Anna Karenina by Leo Tolstoy
Everyone gets burnt out, and after one particularly tough semester, the honeymoon phase ended. I couldn’t enjoy every single book, and I began seeing reading more like a chore and less as its own reward. Come summer, in my much-anticipated spare time, I never freely chose to read; it was for class and it was for study, but if I was being entirely honest with myself, it wasn’t for fun.
With train travel on my calendar, I was loath to spend the whole trip on my phone. Sheepishly, I knew what my past self would have done: read a book. Now I had nowhere to hide. Always one for a good aesthetic, I ambitiously grabbed the big Russian novel with the train tracks on the cover and a dramatic ending. So, with low expectations, I read those indomitable opening lines of Anna Karenina: “Happy families are all alike; every unhappy family is unhappy in its own way.” A few hours later, reading was again both cerebral and captivating, a painful amount of work and a healing experience, a gripping drama and an absolute blast.
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Pretty Much Anything by William Shakespeare
Did anyone actually like reading Shakespeare? Did anyone actually understand anything he said? Sure, to be or not to be, but did we have to read the rest of the play? I’d skimmed Hamlet once or twice studying my other major, Theatre, but conceded zero interest in what I thought was dull, flowery and obtuse. It was the Harry Potter thing all over again, but this time, overhyped high-minded literature. Spoiler alert: I regret this, too.
That same aforementioned professor offered a summer course in Shakespeare. When schlepping around a double major, 3 credits in 3 weeks made sense. I knew that this was also my best and possibly sole shot at actually getting something out of these plays. I’m not going to lie, it was intense, and plowing through that unfamiliar form of my native language was humbling to say the least. But the sun broke through, I saw the light, and I came out proclaiming the glory of King Lear. All this to say, you too, yes you in the back, can love Shakespeare. Believe the hype. Once again, books (well, plays) won over my pride and prejudices
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A Tree Grows in Brooklyn by Betty Smith
I did manage to graduate in four years, and after the cap was stashed in a closet somewhere, the job hunt began. The rest of my life loomed before me with no one ever forcing me to read a book again. Job applications don’t ask how many Jane Austen novels you’ve read, which is a shame because I’d read them all. Adults tend to talk about more practical things than the symbolism of the bullfights in The Sun Also Rises. And libraries rarely have many physical copies of books anymore.
Brooklyn’s in my blood. I’d heard from my mom, and two aunts, that a certain book captured the essence of a formative time in my family heritage like no other. While post-grad limbo felt like a strange time to explore the past, I knew that Betty Smith’s novel would hit close to home with grit, grime and yet, a seed of hope. Reading it was, indeed, painful and promising; the story offered me grace in intangible forms and the assurance of a journey of certain uncertainty ahead. My feet on the solid ground of realism and my head in the clouds of imagination, I move on. Such is life.
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It’s nice to see American Girl on here. They don’t seem as popular.