Tolstoy and the Purple Chair (9 page)

Guilt was the force holding me back from forgiving the death of Anne-Marie. Guilt was the barrier against accepting that I was alive, and she no longer was. My oldest, smartest, most beautiful sister had lost her own life, having long ago saved mine.

I had to forgive myself for living.

Toward the end of January, I read
Moonlight Shadow
by Banana Yoshimoto. Satsuki, a young woman whose boyfriend has been killed in a car accident, tries to assuage her pain by going out for long runs through her town. Every morning while out running, Satsuki stops for a rest on the bridge where she last saw her boyfriend. One morning she meets a woman on the bridge, and they begin a strange friendship: “Somewhere deep in my heart I felt I had known her long ago, and the reunion made me so nostalgic I wanted to weep tears of joy.” Through this woman Satsuki is given a unique chance, the chance to see her boyfriend one last time, and to talk to him. She calls across the river, “Hitoshi, do you want to talk to me? I want to talk to you. I want to run over to your side, take you in my arms, and rejoice in being together again.”

I read the book on a cold but sunny day. I was home all alone, the boys at school and Jack at work. The cats lay on the floor beside my chair in the squares of sun that came in through the windows. After finishing
Moonlight Shadow
, I sat back in my purple chair. If I had the chance to see Anne-Marie one last time, the chance Satsuki had with her beloved Hitoshi, would I ask her to forgive me for being the one who got to live? For not taking on the burden of cancer? No, of course not. Such questions would be self-serving and selfish, and would only cause pain to both of us. Instead, I would tell her the truth about what she had left behind in me. I would tell her how much I loved her. I would promise to bring her forth alive every day in my memories, and in my touching of the people, the objects, and the places she left behind. I would live, always with her in mind: I was not alone. “What thou lov'st well . . . ,” I would remind her. And in that love which I carried forward, I would find forgiveness.

I went upstairs to my bedroom. Lion sat there on a bookshelf, on top of stacks of paperback mysteries. He was raggedy, his shiny eyes sagging in their sockets. His yellow mane had gone gray with dirt and time, and his belly was flat. A gold-and-orange ribbon wound around his neck, tied on by Anne-Marie after bringing him out of retirement when my kids were born. The ribbon helped keep his head up, given that most of his stuffing was gone. In Anne-Marie's hands, and with her voice, Lion entertained the boys. Once again, she'd had Lion make jokes at my expense, to my sons' delight and disbelief and uncontrollable giggles.

Now Lion lived on with me, voiceless but still present. I took Lion in my arms and gave him a kiss, right on top of his ratty little head. He was Anne-Marie's alter ego, and he will remain with me. As Anne-Marie remains with me, in my still-beating heart.

I've pushed blame away. My heart is scarred but clear of the scratching, clawing guilt that kept me from forgiving myself for living on when Anne-Marie could not. So where do I go now? What “blazing road of orange and gold” will I find to follow?
How
do I live?

I remembered the mandate from my very first book of the year,
The Elegance of the Hedgehog
, that I find moments of beauty, the “always within never.” I was finding beauty, and recovering memories, and absolving guilt. Seeking peace and discovering joy. My path forward was clear to me. It was a path set ablaze by words, words made into sentences and paragraphs and chapters and books. My way was paved by books.

Chapter 9
To Welcome the Interloper

When you have possessed a book with mind and spirit, you are enriched. But when you pass it on you are enriched threefold.

HENRY MILLER,

The Books in My Life

ONE DAY IN MID-JANUARY AN INTERLOPER ARRIVED IN MY LIFE
. It was afternoon, and the kids were home from school. A good friend called and asked if she could stop by. She had a book for me to read. “I loved it,” she said. My friend—or rather, the book offered out to me from her hands—was the interloper, an unexpected guest at my table of books.

Three months into my book-a-day project, and I was into a good rhythm of reading and writing. January was almost over, and the postholiday, midwinter blahs never had a chance with me this year. I was too caught up in reading great books and in the challenge of writing about them every day. Every morning I posted my review of the book I'd read the day before. Then I walked over to my bookcase and looked over books I'd bought or borrowed from the library. I picked out a book for that day, ambled over to my purple chair, and began to read. If a phone call came in, I'd answer.

“Are you busy?” the caller would ask.

“Yes, I'm working.” Sitting in my chair, cats nearby, I was reading a great book. That was my job this year, and it was a good one. The salary was nonexistent, but the satisfaction was daily and deep.

Some mornings after I posted my review I headed out to the local library for a quick cruise of the stacks, looking for new authors or new books by loved authors. I gathered together an armload of books, found a quiet corner with a good chair to sit in, and began reading.

Westport Public Library has seating scattered throughout its building, but the best spots are the ones beside windows with full views onto the Saugatuck River. On a sunny morning, no matter how cold the temperature outside, I could settle into an illusion of summer heat as I sat there beside a warm window and looked down over a river sparkling and shimmering and dotted with birds. When I closed my eyes against the sun and saw the flashes of yellow and orange against my lids, I was as warm and relaxed as if I were sitting on a desert island, with nothing but a beach chair and my books. Those days I spent in the library I followed the sun around as a flower bends its stem, moving from chair to chair to always be in the light and the warmth.

In my first months of reading, I had always picked my own books, with a gift or two from my mother to add to the bookshelf. Now I had friends—and more friends—offering up books. Handing them over to me with the words, “Read this. I loved it, and I know you will, too.”

But what if I didn't love the book? What if I hated it? In the past few months, there had been one or two books, chosen by me, that I'd started and then stopped reading because it had been so clear to me that I didn't like the book and that the book wasn't going to get any better anytime soon. With books given by friends, I didn't have that out. The book was a gift, and gifts were to be read. That is a rule of friendship. And all books read were to be reviewed: that was a rule of my book-a-day year. Therein lay my dilemma. I couldn't just acknowledge the gifted book with a few words, “It was interesting” or “Loved the landscape.” I had to write a full and true review.

People share books they love. They want to spread to friends and family the goodness that they felt when reading the book or the ideas they found in the pages. In sharing a loved book, a reader is trying to share the same excitement, pleasure, chills, and thrills of reading that they themselves experienced. Why else share? Sharing a love of books and of one particular book is a good thing. But it is also a tricky maneuver, for both sides. The giver of the book is not exactly ripping open her soul for a free look, but when she hands over the book with the comment that it is one of her favorites, such an admission is very close to the baring of the soul. We are what we love to read, and when we admit to loving a book, we admit that the book represents some aspect of ourselves truly, whether it is that we are suckers for romance or pining for adventure or secretly fascinated by crime.

On the other side of the offered book is the taker. If she is at all a sensitive being, she knows that the soul of the offering friend has been laid wide open and that she, the taker, had better not spit on her friend's soul. I am not exaggerating. Sixteen years ago a friend at work lent me
The Bridges of Madison County
by Robert James Waller. I read the book in one night, and when I discussed it with Mary, I made some comments about how I found the book to be manipulative and unrealistic.

“Sure, I stayed up way too late reading it—I wanted to know if they ever found each other again—but really, that book has nothing to do with how real people carry on. It was romantic nonsense.”

Mary told me I'd missed the point entirely, and she stopped coming by my desk or calling me up for office gossip. By calling her book foolish, I had called her a fool. I would not make that mistake again. But how was I to review a book I didn't like when a friend whom I really liked had given it to me in the first place?

My sisters and I always shared books, from our earliest days as readers through our teens and into adulthood. Natasha and I, horse fanatics both, passed Marguerite Henry books back and forth. My favorite was
Black Gold
and hers was
Misty of Chincoteague
, and we both loved
Born to Trot
. When I turned thirteen, Anne-Marie gave me my own copy of
Steal This Book
by Abbie Hoffman (she knew I'd take her copy from her room and preempted my theft with a gift). I looked through the table of contents. I was interested in all the free stuff, but I was freaked out by references to free abortions and treatment of diseases. What kind of diseases? I had no interest in growing my own marijuana or living in a commune. But the book was a symbol. I closed it and laid it casually on my desk for friends to see when they came over. I had been invited into the world of adults by my older sister. No longer was I the little kid sister; I was moving up.

Anne-Marie gave me my first Wilkie Collins,
The Moonstone
, when I was in law school, thereby beginning an ongoing obsession with him that has never abated in my heart or soul. She also tried to hook me on Anthony Trollope, but I could not get into him or his Barsetshire. When I was laid up in bed for two weeks after a knee operation, she brought me
The Quincunx
by Charles Palliser, a faux Victorian novel complete with a fatherless child, coincidental meetings of great importance, absurd (and wonderful) surnames, and a riveting plot that kept me glued to the book from page 1 through page 781.

The giving of books between sisters offers much less risk of exposure or rejection than between friends. There is both less to hide and less to lose. For one thing, a sister's soul has been bared a few million times before, willingly or not (I did, after all, read Anne-Marie's diary), and for another, my family is always there, come hell or high water. For a friend to offer up a book, much more has been laid on the line. A book offered is an open hand outstretched, taking the chance that it might not be taken, that it might in fact be slapped down. A book offered and a book rejected: Could that ruin a friendship? It had once, with Mary at work, and I didn't want it to happen again.

My friends knew about my book-a-day project, although I tried hard not to talk about it all the time. I didn't want to be the one rhapsodizing through dinner parties about books. I tried not to monopolize all conversations, turning them into book lectures for the benefit of my poor cornered acquaintances. It was bad enough that I was the one singing, “I'm in love, I'm in love, I'm in love, I'm in love, I'm in love with a wonderful book.” I was lucky to have more than one chum willing to give me a book and say, “Hey, try this one.” I realized that in writing my reviews of such books I could be honest, but I must also be grateful. Grateful for the sharing, for the open soul, and for the friendship.

“Love is blind and that goes for love of books as well,” I wrote in my review of
Love Walked In
by Marisa de los Santos. Then I quoted a Flemish expression often used by my mother:
Ieder diertje zijn pleziertje
. It literally translates as “Each animal has his pleasure” and means, basically, “To each his own.”
Love Walked In
had been a gift, and although the words within the book failed to move me, the giving of the book did move me, profoundly. I knew I was loved with that gift, and that made me feel good. I returned the love with a gift of my own, the lending of
The Third Angel
by Alice Hoffman, a book I'd just read and enjoyed. Did my friend like the lent book? She told me she did, when she returned it a few weeks later.

There are book lovers who never lend out books, for fear of losing their treasures forever. (An old Arab proverb advises, “He who lends a book is an idiot. He who returns the book is more of an idiot.”) I have always been a big lender, following Henry Miller's advice: “Like money, books must be kept in constant circulation. Lend and borrow to the maximum—of both books and money! But especially books, for books represent infinitely more than money. A book is not only a friend, it makes friends for you. When you have possessed a book with mind and spirit, you are enriched. But when you pass it on you are enriched threefold.” I would make friends with the taking and giving of books, not lose them. If I could not bear parting with a book, especially one in which I'd written notes along the margins and the back pages, I bought an extra copy and handed the new one over.

I came to realize that my acts of reading and sharing, along with my friends' acts of reading and sharing, were being multiplied by readers around the world, as friends and sisters and mothers and sons around the world found books they loved, and shared what they had found with people they loved. The lesson was brought home to me not by the gift of a book but by e-mails. The mother of a good friend e-mailed me from Florida to recommend Garth Stein's
The Art of Racing in the Rain
. A friend in California sent me an e-mail recommending
The White Tiger
by Aravind Adiga: “My book group just read it and some loved it, some hated it. No middle ground.” Then a woman from Austria wrote to me to tell me that she'd loved my review of
On Chesil Beach
by Ian McEwan.

“Have you read
Atonement
?” she wrote. “I read it and gave it to everyone I know. Much better than the movie.”

My sister-in-law sent me her copy of Hoffman's
Third Angel
. I read it and loved it. It was an easy review to write: “The third angel is when love is unbounded, for just a moment, and that moment is enough to change someone, comfort someone, help someone, save someone. The third angel is what happens when a sunset or a field of heather or a puppy is enough, when love is enough, when just knowing that life's possibilities exist is enough.” Or maybe the third angel is when one friend gives a book to another, heart and soul exposed.

I received an e-mail from a man in New York City who had been doing research for a book club meeting and happened upon my review of
The Sin Eater
by Alice Thomas Ellis. Over the next few months he would become a regular correspondent, recommending books like
The Old Man and Me
by Elaine Dundy and
Desperate Characters
by Paula Fox. He and I, complete strangers, made a connection through our love of books. A reader reached out from Germany, the sister of a friend wrote from Brazil with recommendations of Brazilian writers, a woman wrote from Singapore, and I had a whole slew of British book lovers writing in with recommendations. There was a world of voracious readers out there, and they all had “must read” and “loved this” books for me.

There was more to my year of reading than I had first anticipated. Not only was I recovering memories of my own, I was sharing memories of one of life's greatest pleasures, reading, with an ever-larger group of friends and strangers, readers and writers both.

Around the world, on any given day, hundreds, even thousands, of readers might pick up and read the very same book. There are organized events of shared reading, like the yearly town-wide read led by my local library. One year we read
The Giver
by Lois Lowry; this year we'd be reading
The Housekeeper and the Professor
by Yoko Ogawa. But even without any planning, a woman in California may decide to reread
The Great Gatsby
on the same day a young man in Delhi decides it is time to see if the book beats out the movie, at the same time that a retiree in Warsaw finds a good translation—
Wielki Gatsby
—at a book stall and decides to buy it and begin reading that day.

What do these readers have in common? They might have nothing in common other than knowing how to read and using the skill to enjoy books. I read
Deaf Sentence
by David Lodge in January, and so did many other people, all around the world. I received an e-mail from a woman who lived “in Devon [England] in splendid isolation” who went to hear Lodge do a reading from the novel: it was “fascinating.” A woman in Australia wrote to me after reading Paasilinna's
Howling Miller
and later finding my review of it. She suggested I read Bi Feiyu's
Moon Opera
. I lived in suburban Connecticut, she lived outside Melbourne, Paasilinna lived in Finland, and Feiyu lived in China. Around the globe with a book and back again. Each of us brought our own experiences to how we interpreted the book (which in part accounts for the differences in taste in books), but the words we read were the same. We were sharing with each other and with the author.

The benefits of sharing books are “threefold,” as Henry Miller promised: a multitude of books to read, a world of new authors to know, and the universe of readers with whom to share the reading experience. The interloper I had feared—books shared from the heart—had instead become a benefit of my year of reading, a bounty to keep me well supplied with new authors, new books, new ideas, and new friends. As old Aunt Elinor states in Cornelia Funke's
Inkheart
, “Books loved anyone who opened them, they gave you security and friendship and didn't ask anything in return; they never went away, never, not even when you treated them badly. Love, truth, beauty, wisdom and consolation against death. Who had said that? Someone else who loved books.” It is this shared love of books and the shared understanding of what they have to offer that holds the world of readers and writers together.