A Good Book

What is a good book? For me, it's the one that grabs you, right on that first page, and makes you want to stay a while. "Nevermind the dishes, the laundry, the list of things to do—stay here and read some more," it says.

In a basket next to my sofa is a stack of good books. Or so I like to think. I haven't read them yet. To be honest, I haven't been much for reading lately. I'm too antsy. I can't sit still that long, right now. It's a phase.

I'm not sure what made me even think about reaching for a book yesterday, but I did. A well-worn John Steinbeck hardcover from 1961. I've never read Steinbeck, but I found it at the annual library book sale on the Green and it looked kind of fun. It's called "Travels with Charley" and is the telling of his travels cross country with his French poodle Charley in a pickup truck camper called Rocinante.

I wasn't sure what to expect. But, a dozen or so pages in, I was laughing so hard my cats looked at me with some concern.

"I thought I might do some writing along the way," writes Steinbeck. "perhaps essays, surely notes, certainly letters. I took paper, carbon, typewriter, a compact encyclopedia, and a dozen other reference books, heavy ones. I suppose our capacity for self-delusion is boundless. I knew very well that I rarely make notes, and if I do I either lose them or can't read them. I also knew from thirty years of my profession that I cannot write hot on an event. It has to ferment. I must do what a friend called 'mule it over' for a time before it goes down. And in spite of this self-knowledge, I equipped Rocinante with enough writing materials to take care of ten volumes. Also I laid in a hundred and fifty pounds of those books one hasn't gotten around to reading—and of course those are the books one isn't ever going to get around to reading. Canned goods, shotgun shells, rifle cartridges, tool boxes and far too many clothes, blankets and pillows, and many too many shoes and boots, padded nylon sub-zero underwear, plastic dishes and cups and a plastic dishpan, a spare tank of bottled gas. The overload springs sighed and settled lower and lower. I judge now that I carried about four time too much of everything."

I couldn't help but think of the giant red suitcase I carted with me to France last year, packed to the brim with all of the useful things I would need (and of course did not exist in a place like Paris)—enough socks, paper, pens, t-shirts, Q-tips and Zantac to last six months I think!

And then, while I was laughing and remembering that whirlwind vacation and being glared at by my cats, something very interesting happened. I sat still. Sat still for two hours, as a matter of fact!

A good book indeed.