I’m in the market for a good novel.  And by “good” I don’t necessarily mean Man Booker Prize good.  I mean “will this entertain me and keep me off the streets?” good.  Generally, I like to alternate between deep, profound books and pure swill.  Occasionally I go for the in-between.  So please recommend a book that you enjoyed.  Not one that you think I will like, because you don’t know what I like.  I’ll read anything.  I’ll read epic stories about dysfunctional immigrant families, spanning seven generations, borrowing heavily from the work of Ezra Pound.  I’ll read about Satanist sorority sisters and their sadistic sexual exploits.  Truly, I have no standards when it comes to the written word.  It’s a character flaw I like to pass off as eccentric charm.

So go ahead, recommend a book to me.  If it sucks and I hate it, I won’t hold it against you.  My husband told me to read Lord of the Rings, and we’re still married.  Of course, I never finished Lord of the Rings.  I won’t finish your book, either, if I hate it that much, but you shouldn’t take it personally.  Feel free to tell yourself that I’m really busy and my mind is going, and I just can’t appreciate good literature like some people can. 

There’s no prize, per se, for recommending a book that I end up loving.  Just the joy of knowing that you’ve enriched my life. 

No matter what book you recommend, each time I see that book I will think of you and I will either say, “I will always be grateful to so-and-so for recommending that book to me” or “Thanks to so-and-so, that’s four hundred pages of my life I’ll never get back again.”  Either way, you will live forever in my memory.  Who among you can resist immortality of that order?

I thought as much.

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