Books, books, books!

So I have been a moron lately. I started to write about what I did in Honduras, and then got horribly embarrassed when I remembered that I had asked you, my clever readers, to recommend BOOKS for Honduras. These books went mostly unread. In fact, in the perverse way that some of us who lug gigantic hardcover biographies (or Greek grammar textbooks, or stunningly boring but significant twentieth-century tomes we have no intention of cracking the spines of–I’m looking at you, dreadful Robert Musil) to farflung locales, I carried about thirty pounds of printed material with me on vacation, and read about seven ounces of it. (On the plane down. I kid you not. What on earth is the matter with me?)

In my defense, I was in HONDURAS. I rose every day at the mind-numbing hour of five thirty, and proceeded to one or another delightful activity. (Nearly every day my mother and I would look at each other, realize it was only about eight a.m., and burst out laughing with the sheer glee of having already had several adventures before we’d normally be out of bed. It was enough to make me swear to wake up early every day from then on. It was not, however, enough to make me actually DO it.)

On vacation, if there are books around, I tend to adopt an apocalyptic mindset. I will read everything publicly available before resorting to what I myself brought along–which is kind of like storing one’s savings in the mattress, or hoarding food, or keeping every day’s newspaper just in case. So I didn’t touch any of the books I’d brought with me, not even “A Suitable Boy“, which clocks in at six million pages and about seventy five pounds. Instead I read Suite Française, which my mother had brought, which was absolutely fucking amazing. My mother read the Mitford book I’d brought for her (“Wigs on the Green“) and pronounced it “dopey”. And I read an absolute stunner called Chasing Tropical Birds, which my mother had read when she’d been down in Honduras staying at the same lodge the year before, because it had rained and she’d been desperate. It smelled like mildew and I took it to bed with me every night (at the ripe old hour of around eight–generally we’d both read for half an hour or so before conking out) and ordered it immediately when I got home. (It’s out of print, but I ordered it from Amazon and the package came from Germany. Quite a thrill.)

My mother defied my Do Not Bring Things I Have Read order by bringing “At Large and At Small: Familiar Essays” by Anne Fadiman. Which was useful, as I liked to carry it around with me in hopes that someone would ask about it, so that I could casually mention that I have, in fact, met Anne Fadiman. (She is the best friend and college roommate of one of my graduate student advisers. We have exchanged emails, even. Alas, no one asked.)

But I started thinking about Anne Fadiman, and how amazing her first book “The Spirit Catches You and You Fall Down” was.  And it occurred to me that she is one of the very few writers whose entire oeuvre is absolutely recommendable, if you know what I mean.  I have loved everything I’ve read that she has written.  Everything.

The only other writer about whom I can say that same thing is Laurie Colwin, whose untimely death (she was in her late 40s, I believe).  If you have not read her books, by all means do so immediately.  Goodbye Without Leaving may be my very favorite, followed closely by Family Happiness and Shine on, Bright and Dangerous Object. And oh, Another Marvelous Thing. Then there are her short stories–The Lone Pilgrim is a wonderful place to start.  (I’m not linking to these via my Amazon affiliates thing, which has seeded my book-buying fund with about thirty dollars–nothing to sneeze at, actually!–so far, thanks to those of you who have entered Amazon via one of my links.  But I don’t like the way my own website formats the links, all puffy and blue, and I don’t know how to change it.  However, if you get into Amazon via one of the other links above and THEN buy Laurie Colwin–or anything else, for that matter–I get a tiny cut.)

Laurie Colwin also wrote two books of essays about food, complete with recipies–Home Cooking and More Home Cooking–which were out of print for a while, which forced me to STEAL them from my graduate school university’s library.  (I’m sorry.)  But the good news is they’ve been reissued, and I can honestly say that her recipes, like her prose, never disappoint.

I’m about to go on another trip (all shall be revealed) and am once again faced w/ the daunting prospect of choosing what books to take along.  But instead of asking you for book recommendations, this time I want to ask you whether you have authors like the two I’ve listed above, whose every novel or story or poem you feel is wonderful.  Authors without any soft spots, as it were, in their body of work.  Even my beloved Flannery O’Connor didn’t quite pull off The Violent Bear it Away, I don’t think.  (She was a much better essayist and short-story writer than novelist.)

So:  Who are your Perfect Writers?