Acquiring books

So many books, so little time. How do you choose which book to read next?

For so long I had books chosen for me—I read the books that my parents owned, and then the ones in the public library, and then what my teachers assigned, my professors, and my book groups. Even now I am very insecure about choosing books. I like to believe that choosing a book by recommendation or review is never as romantic—and rarely as successful—as finding one by chance encounter.

Inside a large bookstore I am paralyzed, but a cart outside in the street is irresistible. I know I may only find a gem or two and will be able to weed out all the rest. For example, I bought Smilla’s Sense of Snow from the small for sale cart in the library, perceiving about it only that it was set in Denmark and Greenland. What a fine purchase it turned out to be.

So there I was in Strasbourg this summer, in the Place Gutenberg, riffling through crates of used books. We were traveling light, so I could only choose one book. I had been in the Librairie Kléber, one of the best bookstores in the world, and emerged bookless because of indecision. Even this outdoor bookstall had a large selection of high quality books. The pressure was mounting. I could have chosen one of many classics and been quite happy, but nothing was singing to me, as the French expression goes.

I didn’t want just any old ugly mass market paperback that would pain me when I gazed upon the bookshelves at home. So I picked up a small, solid book with a bright turquoise spine. The front cover was even better, a bold bright painting of a cabin in the tropics. When I read the back cover, the decision was made. This was a book I had never heard of by an author I had never heard of, but it was based on his childhood in Haiti. Two years or so ago I went on an enjoyable Haitian literature binge, and it had been a while since I had read anything of that nature.

Le Charme des après-midi sans fin (The Charm of Endless Afternoons) by Dany Laferrière was pure delight. It is simply written, befitting the viewpoint of a not-quite-adolescent boy raised by his grandmother in a small Haitian village. It is not sentimental, lush, or introspective. Instead, the writer gives you brief, pithy scenes where you see, hear, and smell exactly enough to know what you need to know.

I found myself laughing out loud time after time as the boy, Vieux Os (Old Bones), gave his honest accounting of various situations. It is from this tender, innocent point of view that the reader encounters the heavy topics that a Haitian setting must invariably include. The events are interesting and the characters are superb.

Here is one of my favorite sections, titled “The Photo.”

Nothing has changed in my grandfather’s room. His hat, his cane still hung on the wall, near the bed, next to the photo of an immense yellow tractor in a field of wheat. I have spent hours in front of this photo. A man is driving the tractor. His two sons (the younger must be about my age) are nearby. You can see them above their waists. The rest of their bodies disappears in the high grass. I notice that they aren’t wearing hats. My grandfather would never have tolerated such a thing—to work bareheaded in the fields is to risk certain sunstroke. All three of them wear the same plaid shirt with the sleeves rolled up to their elbows. The man and his sons are as blond as ears of corn. I look at them for a long time, especially the younger son, wondering what would happen if he and I switched places. He would come and live in this house, in Petit-Goâve, and I would go to Chicago. Every time I say it, this word makes me feel funny all over, as impressive as the largest tractor: Chicago. Chicago. Chicago. Three syllables that clatter in the wind. Chicago. It feels good in my mouth. Petit-Goâve also sounds good. I can’t really tell. I was born here. I don’t know when I heard Chicago named for the first time. That little boy from Chicago might die without ever hearing of Petit-Goâve. I feel sad thinking about that. Sad for him, for me, and for Petit-Goâve. Everyone in the world has heard of Chicago because of its yellow tractors. And Petit-Goâve, what will it be known for in the world one day?

I’m not sure if this book has been published in English, but The Aroma of Coffee is the English translation of another book by the same author about the same little kid, Old Bones. I really need to get my hands on it.

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