Literary Genius

I am brilliant. I know it. I'm sure of it. BRILLIANT. Really.

There are those people who read things. Books. You know, the written word. Prose, poetry, plays, basically, whatever they can get their hands on. It's a sick fucking addiction, but somebody's got to support starving writers, you know. I am coming out and saying it: I am one of these people. I love reading. I love the feel of crisp, new pages, the smell of freshly printed words on a page, the stiff feel of a brand new paperback, where the glue is still thick and fresh in the binding. Libraries and bookshops are some of my favorite places in the world. My earliest memories (those not involving a goat in the Alps) involve playing hide-and-seek with my father in the legal library of his hoity-toity Beverly Hills law firm on Saturday afternoons as a very, very small toddler. I cannot fall asleep at night without a book in progress, and I cannot poop without the aid of one in the bathroom. I'm a simple soul.

So, after a hectic day yesterday, involving crazy kids, their parents and little league coaches, a 6:30am call an hour away in New Hampshire, not quite enough coffee, and no food whatsoever, I decided that I needed a new book. And I knew exactly which one I wanted: Watermelon by Marian Keyes. It promised to be light, funny, a bit romantic, and very Irish; I knew that I wanted to purchase it before I ever walked into my favorite independent bookshop, as I had just finished one of her other stories and enjoyed it. I've been quite busy as of late and a bit stressed out about my stupid murderous roommates and all of the jobs (count 'em -- 4) and I really wanted something light and funny -- pure escapism is the order of the day every day.

I walked into the bookshop and headed directly to the K area of the fiction section . . . and was deterred by another Marian Keyes title that also had promise: Last Chance Saloon. In my exhausted and starved state, I did what any reasonable woman in my shoes would have done: "Eeny, meeny, mieny, moe. Catch that tiger by the toe. If it hollers, let it go. Eeny, meeny, mieny, moe." Only, I didn't want to cheat, so I looked at the next shelf up, grabbed the book that fate had chosen (ok, it was Watermelon, if you must know, but I swear I didn't look -- I just remembered that it was the one on the right). I confidently strutted up to the register, laid my book on the counter, dug out my wallet, gave the sales lady a winning smile as I told her my customer appreciation program number, and handed her my card before I looked lovingly at my newest acquisition: The Swallows of Kabul.

What the fuck? The back of the book did not say, "Claire has everything she ever wanted: a husband she adores, a great apartment, a good job. Then, on the day she gives birth to their first baby, James informs her that he's leaving her. Claire is left with a newborn daughter, a broken heart, and a postpartum body that she can hardly bear to look at.
She decides to go home to Dublin. And there, sheltered by the love of a quirky family, she gets better. So much so, in fact, that when James slithers back into her life, he's in for a bit of a surprise." It did not look like this:


On the contrary, it said, "Kabul under the Taliban, a devastated city ruled by executioners and crows, where laughing in public brings down the wrath of the religious police. This is the world in which Yasmina Khadra---the psuedonym of a former officer in the Algerian army---sets his cauterizing novel of fanaticism and tenderness.
With an implacable eye, Khadra follows two couples: Mohsen and Zunaira are dispirited survivors of Afghanistan's educated middle class; Atiq is a brutish jailer bound by a debt of gratitude to his dying wife, Musarrat. One day the horrified Mohsen finds himself taking part in the stoning of a condemned prostitute, an action that will impel all four characters toward new destinies. As spare as carved bone and filled with images that explode like bombs, The Swallows of Kabul is a work of haunting power." And, not that I would judge a book by its cover, but it looked like this:


Well, fuck. That's not at all what I was looking for. I wanted light, remember. I'm sure that The Swallows of Kabul is great. But I wanted beach-read light, not rainy day dreary, damnit.

So, what could I do? I went back to the K area of the fiction section with both eyes wide open, grabbed Watermelon, went back to the register, put my stupid book on the counter, made small talk with the clerk, muttered something about buying the book for a friend with less literary tastes (damn near illiterate, that one--that sort of thing), and I paid for the book I really wanted, all the while with The Swallows of Kabul darkening my bag and my mood.

The upshot? At my second trip to the register, the thing spit out a coupon for me for being an appreciated customer (which basically means that I have spent over $150 there--again). So now, my next book purchase will be discounted $7.50. And I'll still have the exuberant and joyous Swallows of Kabul.

Go ahead and fucking laugh. You know you want to.

That, dear readers, is all.