People who work with books know the end of the year brings a
slew of Best books of the year lists. Publishers Weekly does
its list
early, and the New York Times does a
long list of notables. One of my favorite lists to contribute to and
read is an idiosyncratic list of PW editors’ favorite books. As in, what we
really liked. It’s a revelation: book revelation, self-revelation, revelation
from colleagues. It’s also a freedom from obligation to follow what’s trending
and what should be talked about and instead permission to follow the heart.
I picked John Green’s
The Fault in Our Stars because
it swept me away and it helped me forget that my sister was dying as I read it.
Thinking about my reaction reminded me about the roots of my love for books. In
seventh grade I wrote a poem
Books Are
Our Friends and I won a prize for it: a book. Of course. On occasions when
I have talked to students about what I do and sought to encourage reading, I
have told them that if they like to read, they will never be lonely. I still
think books are magic carpets for the imagination, Netflix and HBO
notwithstanding.
The Fault in Our Stars
resonated on a lot of levels for me. Anything that echoes Shakespeare piques
my interest. The author is also profoundly voicey; you get the picture pretty
quickly. Green’s
background as a hospital chaplain was another lure. As a young adult book, it was more straightforward and
offered refuge from existential irony and artsy explorations of postmodern
specialized subcultures and gave a chance to look at human-condition, no-escape
issues like mortality. And the pages almost turned themselves, even though I
was reading it on my Kindle.
