Dear Fahrenheit 451 Page 4

  So age be damned! You’re my beauty mentor and I’ll never give you up. It’s in my will that the mortician has to consult you for my blush shade (magenta) when I kick the bucket. It probably goes without saying, you’ve colored me beautiful.

  Stay Golden (unless you’re supposed to wear silver tones),

  JUVENILE FICTION—Langton, Jane

  —Books, Magic Inside Of

  Dear The Fledgling,

  You did a good thing for me. You did several good things way back when I first read you. But it wasn’t until later on that you did the Real Good Thing.

  As a kid, you reflected my love of nature with your spindly, stoic young heroine, Georgie, who sneaked away to her house of bushes, hidden from the world. She made dinners of grass salad and stone pudding and poured imaginary tea into acorn teacups. You held wonder in you as you told of Georgie learning how to fly with the help of a magical Goose Prince. You introduced me to Henry Thoreau through your story, which is set in the famous philosopher’s hometown of Concord, in a house that invites students to learn transcendental knowledge. The interest I had in Thoreau’s ideas began to bloom with you, and grew into deep admiration, until it rooted itself in my heart with such a strong hold that I named my son Walden, after Thoreau’s masterwork.

  That’s when you gave me the Real Good Thing. I returned home, after a week at the hospital with a tiny child, and nothing prepared for him but a stellar bookshelf of my own favorite reading. My broken, leaking body didn’t feel like my own anymore. My mind didn’t feel familiar to me. I cried and I cried, and everyone told me not to worry so much about the baby. And I was ashamed to tell them that I was crying with worry for myself. I was at once more alone than I’d ever felt, and never going to be alone again.

  You might not have known it, but among the marvels inside of you—the flying children, whimsical transcendental scholars, and talking geese—you gave me a magical portal that led me back to myself. One early morning, as I held my sleeping son, too nervous to stand and place him back in his crib lest I wake him, I grabbed the closest book within reach and was again pulled into your world. And for the first time since coming home, I felt not like a sleepless frantic stranger, but like me, the same me who sat on my back porch steps with my feet in the long grass, reading you for the first time. I remembered how I’d giggled at old Miss Prawn’s plastic flowers, and the formation of the Georgie Protection Society. I’d swelled with hope each time Georgie leaped into the air. These memories helped me untangle from my anxious mind. You comforted me in a way that no one else’s words could have managed, reminding me of my own natural soul. Of the person I am when I don’t have to be anything else.

  When people say books are full of wonder, we don’t take it seriously enough. You are over thirty-five years old. You smell like old paper and smudged fingertips. You’ve lain dusty and untouched for decades. And you’re magic. You are. You can’t work wonders for everyone because, like all things with magic inside them, you have to wait for the right hands to touch you at just the right moment. But when it happens, it is with as much power as any ruby slippers or prince’s kiss.

  All through your pages, the Goose Prince speaks of a present for Georgie. In the end, the Present appears to be an ordinary rubber ball. Except that when the little girl is alone, it comes alive. The ball glows and spins in her hands, and she realizes: it’s the world. Georgie knows then what the Goose Prince meant when he asked her to take care of it, and she knows that she’s capable of keeping that promise.

  I finished reading you and placed you back on your shelf, but your magic still glimmered around me. I looked into my arms at my sleeping Walden. I saw the girl who ran inside to look up “transcendental” in her mother’s encyclopedia. I saw a boy with my eyes sinking his feet into the long grass. I saw that I was holding my world.

  Thank You,

  HOME ECONOMICS—FOOD AND DRINK—FOOD HISTORY—Williams, Barbara

  —Popcorn

  —More Popcorn

  —Even More Popcorn

  Dear Cornzapoppin’,

  Hey Hay Corn-ay. You’re a great little book. You’ve got a snazzy title. You’re dedicated to someone’s nonie, which is sweet. It’s obvious that you love popcorn and that you’ve spent a lot—A LOT—of time coming up with popcorn recipes for every holiday. Even Flag Day! You are delightful and you’re going to make a swell book—for someone else. At the used book sale.

  I love popcorn. I guess I just don’t lahooooove popcorn. But it’s sort of all you ever want to talk about. Popcorn fondue, popcorn castles, popcorn lollipops and snowmen, popcorn Easter baskets filled with popcorn Easter eggs. On the Fourth of July, you suggested shooting popcorn out of cannons. When I mentioned my father was watching his weight, you recommended your “Beefy Popcorn Alternate for Dieting Dads.” I don’t know what kind of diet books you’ve been shelved next to, Corny, but most of them frown upon throwing a stick of butter and a jar of beef jerky on top of a bowl of … you guessed it: popcorn.

  Look, you’ve been here since 1976. That’s a long time. Not as long as popcorn, which—you informed me—may have been at the first Thanksgiving dinner. But long enough that I’m confident everyone in town who’s shown interest in making popcorn cornucopias has had their shot.

  It might be nice going somewhere different. Maybe someone’s nonie will pick you up at the book sale and take you home! Or maybe you’ll just have some alone time on the table to think about other snacks. Peanuts, maybe. Or just regular corn, if you’re taking baby steps.

  All right, Corny. I “butter” be going.

  Stay A-maize-ing,

  FICTION—Lahiri, Jhumpa

  —Business, All Up in Their

  Dear The Namesake,

  This is unfair. I’m on a date night, sitting at the table next to you, several copies of you actually, each with a pair of hands politely folded on top of your cover. You’re at book group. And you need help.

  If someone was choking, the waitstaff would call out “Is there a doctor nearby?” No one has ever yelled “Is anyone here a librarian?” at a busy restaurant. Even though these folks are clearly struggling with their grasp of you.

  Most of them liked you, that’s all well and good. But no one can quite say what they liked about you. They say, “It was a nice story.” They titter, “Sometimes, the food they talked about made me hungry!” How desperately I want to lean over and say to these well-meaning ladies, “I’m a professional. I’ll take it from here.” My husband, Michael, has offered me ten bucks to do just that, on the condition that I use the voice of the Swedish chef from The Muppets. He doesn’t know my anguish.

  If I were in charge, we’d start with a discussion of names, of course—their meanings, their importance, why Gogol hated his. Why did Gogol’s father keep the meaning behind it a secret? I would ask the group to tell me their favorite nicknames—that would open them up a bit more. I like to go off topic at book talks to build an intimacy. Then people don’t feel so uptight about their opinions.

  We’d segue into talking about place. How are America and India contrasted in the story? How did each character struggle between the two cultures? How was each character’s story specific to the immigrant experience and how was it universal?

  What about your language, Namesake? The easy flow of your story? I overhear one woman complain that nothing much happened. Is that true? Does it matter? Do they prefer beautiful writing and commonplace plot over an action-packed story with a broken voice? I want to know!!! They haven’t even opened you yet.

  “Talk about Gogol’s lovers,” I whisper into my wineglass. I cough loudly as I say: “Howdidhisfamilialobligationsaffecthisrelationships?” Michael’s brow indicates he has gone from amused to annoyed.

  I have to remind myself, once a book is written, it’s in the hands and minds and hearts of the reader. I do believe that. Whatever you did or didn’t do for the people in this group is their own affair and no impeccably designed book discussion is going to eclipse a reader
’s original, visceral reaction. After tonight, you’ll be passed on to siblings, spouses, children, and friends or go back to your home library. It’s fitting that you journey from reader to reader, looking for a comfortable fit. You could be met with ambivalence or you could make someone hungry for samosas or you could redefine a life. Rename it, one might even say. See what I did there? God, I’m good at book talks.

  Happy Travels,

  CULTURE AND INSTITUTIONS—SEXUALITY—Cohen, Richard

  —Some Bullshit

  Dear Coming Out Straight: Understanding and Healing Homosexuality,

  I’ve been waiting a long time to say this: it’s over.

  No one has checked you out for five years. That means we’re allowed to dump you. And I do mean dump. You’re going in the recycling bin and you won’t be “coming out.”

  Guess how I found you? We were pulling books for a display about same-sex marriage being legalized! Yay, right? Oh, sorry.

  Actually, you predicted that gay activists were going to demand marriage rights. But you also said that the sins of our distant ancestors might make us homosexual, so you’re kind of a wild card, eh?

  I think you need some space away from … everyone. To figure out who you are. Maybe practice some of that therapy you’re always preaching. Except the Gesture Re-Education stuff. You were joking about that part, right?

  Oh.

  Sorry.

  (Not Really),

  BOOKS—Rarities

  —Obsessed, No I’m Not. Shut Up.

  Dear Book That Jeffrey Eugenides May Have Owned and Written Personal Notes In,

  I didn’t move to my favorite author’s hometown because I was looking for you, but I can’t say that it doesn’t cross my mind when I’m at used bookshops and garage sales. Will you be there? Will you be a tattered The Aeneid or a creased and dog-eared Philip Roth (yah, I looked up his favorite books, okay)? Will the copy of Anna Karenina that I finally read be one that he scrawled “Jeff” on the inside cover of? Does Jeffrey Eugenides scrawl or does the movement of his hand follow the lyrical flow of his mind? Does he jot? He seems like a jotter.

  Maybe you’ll be something totally unexpected, like a Meg Cabot novel or The Zone or Russell Brand’s My BookyWook. And I just keep hoping you’re going to have a secret note inside that everyone else at the yard sale somehow missed. Something to give me insight into his process, like:

  “How many suicides can I fit in a book before I have to put it in the title?”

  “Why isn’t anybody writing about intersex people???”

  “Note to myself, Jeffrey Eugenides: that girl who keeps harassing my agent over e-mail about her thesis project sounds like an intelligent and complex English major. Maybe use her as muse for character in book about a female English major?”

  That would be great.

  I’ll Be Thinking of You (in a totally chill, not obsessive way),

  FICTION—Tolkien, J. R. R.

  —Hobbits, Yay!

  —Adventure, Meh

  Dear The Hobbit,

  I don’t remember how I acquired you. You’ve always been there on my shelf, which was magical and gave me good feelings about you. So when my nephew told me he was reading you, I thought he and I could read together and have a mini–book group about it. Bonding!

  I loved your beginning. Hobbits are pretty boss. They love to eat and drink. They’re quick to laugh, but also get salty when they’re out of their comfort zone. They rock the bright colors. I wanted to spend some time getting to know these free-wheelin’, big-footed folks.

  But when the main hobbit dude, Bilbo, leaves his cozy hobbit house to go adventuring with the dwarves and the wizard, my attention began to drift. This was around chapter 2. I put you aside, not worrying about keeping pace with my nephew. I mean, I can read faster than a ten-year-old. Or so I thought. Two days later, he called and wanted to talk about Thorin, and the Battle of the Five Armies, and all that other shit that did NOT take place where the hobbits live. Then I had to cram. And I finished you. But the story didn’t go where I wanted it to. Well, it did—back to Hobbiton. But then it just ended. And I was still waiting for more hobbits!

  I get that a lot of people love you and you “changed fantasy forever,” or whatever. But if it were up to me? Maybe have Bilbo hang out with the other hobbits for a little longer. Smoke some pipe-weed. Get into trouble. Find a lady friend. Make merriment. That’s The Hobbit I was looking for.

  You are a brave and clever and longer-than-you-seem book. We just want different things.

  Off You Go,

  JUVENILE FICTION—Dahl, Roald

  —Kids, Precocious

  —Books, World’s Best

  Dear Matilda,

  I’ve wanted to write you for so long. Since I was just a kid—before I had the right words to tell you how much I loved your dark humor, or thank you for making a bookish girl with DIY bangs like me the hero of a story, or tell you that I still think of Hortensia every time I see someone mowing down a bag of greasy “potato crisps.” I’ve always wanted to write to you, but I never did. The truth is, I grew up. And now that I’m finally taking the time, I’m afraid this must be a very different kind of letter.

  It’s time for us to part, Matilda. Someone stole a few of your pages. Or, more likely, they fell out—you are frail and your complexion has darkened with age. The part of you missing includes the introduction of Miss Trunchbull, an essential piece in your narrative. Without all of your story held together, you’re not making much sense.

  Maybe your pages have slipped behind a bedside table or been muddied on the floor of a school bus. You’ve been inside the backpacks and under the beds and in the grubby hands of over fifty “precocious” children, as Miss Honey would say. I wish I could give you to fifty more, but it seems we’ve run our course.

  Taking you out of the library is like s’m-lesses. Do you know what s’m-lesses are? It’s what my mom called it when we couldn’t afford to put the chocolate on s’mores. That’s right. Before I met you, I was just some poor kid eating generic graham crackers and marshmallows like that’s even a real snack, and also being forbidden to watch Pee-Wee’s Playhouse because Pee-Wee got caught at a nudie theater. My folks were at their Wormwood-iest.

  And then I found you. My first big chapter book. I saw myself in you. I wasn’t spunky like Pippi Longstocking or mischievous like Ramona Quimby. I was shy and shabby, with my head in the clouds and in the books. A Matilda. You made me feel like anything was possible. When I was with you, I felt like I could move things with my mind! Yes, I strayed to other books and maybe left you lonely. Spontaneous thrills with The Boxcar Children. Talking dirty with Judy Blume. But I always loved you, Matilda. I never wanted it to be this way.

  There will be other copies of you here, of course. But none with the original cover like you. The others have brighter colors and Matilda is standing on top of the books or waving her arms, demanding attention. Not sitting quietly, thoughtfully scratching her chin and contemplating how to punk her parents.

  For me, it won’t be the same if your cover isn’t a little bit raggedy, your pages crumpled, an illustration of Mr. Wormwood’s checkered jacket outlined in wobbly pen. The library will be a little different without you. And I’m a little different because of you. And I’m grateful for it.

  Sincerely,

  FICTION—Steinbeck, John

  —Genius John’s Bathroom Reader

  Dear Cannery Row,

  What are you doing here? The back of a toilet is no place for you, an American classic, the respected midcareer work of a Nobel Prize winner. Not even a cruddy wire shelf next to the toilet—the sweaty top of the tank itself, strewn with stray hairs and the crusty warts of what one can only hope is dried hair gel.

  You’re not alone, but you’re not in suitable company. If you were in a tidy arrangement of other titles all referring to “the can” in some way, that would be clever. But instead you’re topping a sad lumpy heap of reading material, reflecting the litera
ry tastes of all the roommates who live here: a wrinkled Musician’s Friend magazine, a bloated (from water damage, be nice) copy of the newest Jonathan Franzen, a guide to home brewing beer, and an immaculate Money Book for the Young, Fabulous and Broke by Suze Orman, with the inscription, “She knows her shit! Love, Mom, Christmas 2005.” Is it good to be on top, Cannery, even with this bunch? I guess the less fluid your poor worn paper cover is soaking up, the better.

  I get why you’re here. You’re a quick read, you’re about the everyman, you revel in uncomplicated pleasures, one of which, okay, is shutting the door and reading as much as you can of a good book before your legs go numb.

  Some of your main characters live in a vacant fish-meal warehouse, uncannily like this particular bathroom. The word “stink” is in the second line of the book as well, so I understand you’re no stranger to your surroundings. But, please believe me, even though one of your major themes is to respect and find wisdom in the castoffs of society, to not place yourself above the petty thieves and the prostitutes: YOU ARE BETTER THAN THIS BATHROOM.

  I know these guys. I love these guys. But this place is floppier than the Palace Flophouse. Your quote “no money, and no ambitions beyond food, drink, and contentment” couldn’t fit a group of people better if you’d Quantum Leaped to this very time and location from 1945 and eavesdropped on a conversation about the flavor nuances of the Taco Bell breakfast menu. The party banter may lean philosophical, but the probability of leaving with pink eye is TANGIBLE. For your safety, we’ve got to get you out of here.