Mark Oppenheimer's musing began after he finished reading Geoffrey Wolff's 'The Duke of Deception', and enjoyed reading about Wolff's father. He had wondered why he hadn't read it earlier. Then he realized that it's his wife's book, not his. He was forced to go through their bookshelves again during quarantine when bookstores and libraries went dark, and deliveries delayed.
This dissonance in our tastes surfaced early in our courtship and led to comical misfires. I hoped Cyd would share my love of a good nonfiction narrative, so I bought her Bernard Lefkowitz’s “Our Guys”; she wondered why her new boyfriend got her a book about sexual assault at a New Jersey high school. We discovered a shared love of dogs, and Cyd gave me Sharon Creech’s “Love That Dog”; she was dispirited that I had never heard of the Newbery Award-winning children’s author.We both enjoyed a good crossword puzzle or a vicious Scrabble contest, and were both enthralled by “American Idol,” but we simply didn’t get each other’s literary tastes. What’s more, we had never read the same stuff. In elementary school, Cyd went through the young-adult canon, while I finished all of Gregory McDonald’s Fletch mysteries. (She got her recommendations from librarians, I got mine from Chevy Chase movies.) To this day, I go for cops, she goes for magicians. On our bookshelves, Richard Price’s “Samaritan” may sit next to Philip Pullman’s “The Golden Compass,” but there can be no mistaking which has Oppenheimer yichus, which one is a Fremmer.
It got me chuckling because the man and I don't share books either. Neither do we watch the same films or television series. The rare television series that we fully agree on is The Game of Thrones'. All Hail King in the North and King of Winter! He's iffy about the rest. 'Witcher' is a hoot, but Geralt of Rivia has B-grade lines, so it's not the man's kind of show. Hahahaha. He likes cerebral things that are mind-bending. I appreciate 'Dark' (watch all three seasons together), but it made my head explode. As much as I understand it, I don't dig it. Hello, it's sci-fi. I'm strict about sticking to supernatural, horror and fantasy. The man wouldn't explore my bookshelves. I might sometimes wander over to his if I'm feeling cerebral. He reads a lot of legal writings, sci-fi, urban fiction, and Zadie Smith type of books.
I rarely venture into the man's bookshelves. I peek at it now and then, but rarely do I see a book I want to read. The man and I can agree on some graphic novels, and we might share books that are a collection of contemporary short stories. Chances are, some of the stories will appeal to one of us. Our bookshelves are not existent. We're voracious readers. Our bookshelves and floor space can't keep up. But we have an enormous depository on the Kindle and in the Amazon cloud.
The author thinks that it's jealousy and inadequacy that are preventing him from dipping into his wife's books. Hahahaha. Well, it takes some endurance to finish a fantasy trilogy, or chase it down every other year waiting for the next book in the series to be published. Whatever it is, he's definitely going to be scanning the wife's bookshelves during this period. Who knows, he might find a gem or two. And more.
But this forbearance has no place in our current, sweatpanted world. In quarantine, everything becomes communal property: A good book must be shared no less than the last pint of Haagen-Dazs. I followed up “The Duke of Deception” with “This Boy’s Life,” by Wolff’s brother, Tobias, about his childhood with their mother, thousands of miles from Geoffrey and their father. Equally terrific. I read Cyd’s copies of Ian McEwan’s “Amsterdam” and Michael Cunningham’s “A Home at the End of the World.” I find myself envious of all the years she knew these books. And also grateful. We have this life in common — and now, increasingly, maybe books, too. The children will leave someday, but Galsworthy will remain, thick on our bookshelves, beckoning.
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