(I’m talking about figs! Sometimes you write about the thing you’re thinking about. Other times, you don’t.)
Caroline Squeed liked Moby Dick and The Old Man and the Sea and Don Quixote and Mrs. Dalloway and the way that Gertrude Stein would just write words over and over and then they’d start to feel like different words after awhile and then, hey weird, she’d wake up with drool on her cheek and those words were still there on the page, but also in her brain… somehow. There was no dissuading Caroline from it. Either she liked a book or she didn’t. Some books were terribly written but delightful. Other books were delightfully written but terrible. Some books were neither here nor there and there was no rhyme or reason why she liked one or not the other. Someone one book by an author would rock her world and then, later, another book by that same author would leave her cold. A 10 cent book down at the old user book store would fill her with glee and the latest from the most popular of authors would leave her with a hollow feeling inside. Reading upside down sometimes helped when a book was not to her taste (not the book upside down, her upside down–the book would be right side up, relative to her position. You know, like an astronaut would think of it). There were a few times when she even read books about readers, but they were mostly pretty dull. There was that one book by Calvino that was about a reader that kind of worked, if you liked that cleverclever sort of book. Still, Caroline wished she could figure out the Rosetta Stone for herself and books. It would certainly make finding new books to read a whole lot easier.