Watterson’s Calvin and Hobbes held my hand,
before I understood the understanding of philosophy,
before I learned to not piss my bed.
Anthony’s Xanth was my first introduction to the “adult” world,
when teachers read us Charlettes Web (beautiful) and Sounder (depressing)
when I’d never escaped into a world before.
The Eddings’ Pawns of Prophecy is still read to me in the soft words of my mother,
on a late afternoon, me laying on the carpet listening,
after I asked her what she was reading.
Rowling’s Sorcerer’s Stone is still that strange twilight when color ceases to be,
and afternoons forgetting to eat and drink,
and desperation for the next chapter.
Colfer’s Artemis Fowl is the first time I knew fantasy and reality,
didn’t have to be separate,
and bad could always change its ways.
Pullman’s Amber Spyglass is the first time I reserved a book from the library,
and the first time I put a book aside,
sat on my porch, and wandered the ideas he put in my head as the sun set.
Twain’s The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn read in the bathroom,
at the direction of my father,
that taught me more than I realized about people.
Shakespeare’s Hamlet for the taste of an ageless tale
Beckett’s Waiting for Godot for teaching me how useless and beautiful language could be
Stoppard’s Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are Dead for teaching me that nothing is off limits
Camus’ The Stranger for the taste of freedom in myself
E. E. Cummings for absolutely fucking everything
Dickenson for being Dickenson
Bradbury’s Fahrenheit 451 for the love of the love of books
Bradbury’s Something Wicked This Way Comes for the most beautiful description of a weather vein,
it made me cry to read in the middle of a calculus lecture
Chabon’s The Adventures of Kavalier and Clay for the first kiss that ever struck a painful chord with me, and for the man who gave it to me, who is the reason I even believe in my writing
Goodkind’s Wizards First Rule for an entire section of the novel that made me uncomfortably aroused
Pratchett for having a gift of making the terrible ridiculous
Douglass’ Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy for making me fall in love with whales and potted plants,
in less than a page
Hemmingway’s A Farewell to Arms for the end,
when I cried in what seems now like prophecy
Melville’s Moby Dick because, because, because, because
Watterson’s Calvin and Hobbes for being with me for all of this,
and not showing signs of ever giving up.
You’re the reason I can’t understand selling a book.
