My earliest reading memory
My strongest early memories are of my mother reading to me, before I’d learned to read myself. I’d follow her around, begging her to stop doing her housework and read to me. When she did, it was usually from Grimms’ fairytales, which we both loved. But she never read long enough to satisfy me; I always wanted her to go on. I didn’t understand how housework could have been more important. (I still don’t.)
My favourite book growing up
My early love of fairytales endured and I developed an equal love of myths. I had a paperback edition of Edith Hamilton’s Mythology with illustrations by the startlingly named Steele Savage that was so well thumbed it ended up needing to be held together with rubber bands. As a lover of horses, I also became a devoted fan of the Black Stallion books by Walter Farley.
The book that changed me as a teenager
I remember a long night in the bathroom reading Tolstoy’s Anna Karenina while everyone else in the apartment slept. I remember thinking that I would rather read than sleep – that I’d rather read than do anything – and how this set me apart from everyone I knew at the time. I knew how great the book in my hands was, and I understood, for what may have been the first time, how important to my life great books were going to be.
The book that made me want to be a writer
As a child I believed that I would write children’s books, because those were the stories that made me want to invent stories of my own. I wanted to write about witches and little people and magical beasts and talking animals. When I was growing up I wanted to be Dr Seuss.
The author I came back to
In college I read some stories by John Cheever, and for reasons I’ve never been able to fathom I did not think much of them. Luckily, about a decade later, when a collection of his stories was published to much acclaim, I tried again and became an ardent fan. Now I’ve reread many of those 61 stories several times, and my love for this superb writer remains undiminished.
The book I reread
I often find myself wanting to read Proust again. Another book I keep returning to is Rilke’s The Notebooks of Malte Laurids Brigge. Jamaica Kincaid’s poignant coming-of-age novel, Lucy, is a book I’ve taught in various literature courses quite often over the years, and no matter how well I know it, rereading never fails to be a fresh and rewarding experience.
The book I could never read again
An exasperated English professor once barked at our class, “One of these damn days you’re going to have to read the damn Bible.” And so I did, cover to cover (King James Version). I don’t remember how long it took, but even given another lifetime I can’t imagine doing that again.
The book I discovered later in life
I came late to Christopher Isherwood, finally reading his Berlin Stories when I was around 60. I was so impressed that I immediately moved on to Prater Violet and A Single Man, and Isherwood became an influence on my own writing.
The book I am currently reading
Some years ago I read Walter Kempowski’s final novel, All for Nothing, translated from the German by Anthea Bell. Set during the last days of the Third Reich, it’s one of the best books I’ve ever read. Now I’ve just begun his first novel, An Ordinary Youth, translated by Michael Lipkin. Originally published in 1971, it’s an autobiographical novel based on Kempowski’s boyhood in Nazi Germany.
My comfort read
I don’t have what I’d specifically call a comfort read. I’d say any reading that engages my attention and gives me pleasure is a comfort to me.
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