Bibliophilia

'If any man despises [books], for him I have no liking.' ~Martin Luther.

Okay, so Herr Luther originally said that about music (and I agree with him on that point too, actually), but it's an apt expression of my thoughts at the moment. I never feel so cosy and well-prepared to meet a dose of flu or snowbound-ness as when I have a stash of books in tow, as now. (Although even the stash of books did not make the cold and isolating ice storm of last week palatable.)

I was recently thinking about what made good books good, and decided that for the purposes of my immediate thought trail there were mainly two kinds of books: those with closure and those that were problematic.

In the former category fall all the happy endings, as well as the good solid tragedies such as A Tale of Two Cities or Les Miz. It may not necessarily end happily for all involved, but there's triumph and resonance and something that rings true.

Then there are the odd ducks that don't exactly coalesce, and that still have me puzzled and pondering, such as Till We Have Faces. Is it a good book? Perhaps. It's powerful and well-written, certainly. But what is the moral? Is it pagan? Is it allegorical? Is it worth reading? I find it useful for two reference points, at the very least: 1) the idea of Psyche growing up and imperceptibly moving past her sister's reach and sphere, so that suddenly she was older, wiser, and more mature; 2) the idea of the Queen and Bardia being fellow soldiers and strategists, and having so much in common that at the end of the day the Queen feels cheated and deflated when Bardia goes home to his wife and family and she realises that his life really tilts that direction despite his best efforts being spent for Queen and country. Is it ever possible to outgrow people through sheer life experience? Must home and work be forever in conflict, and must one inevitably drown the other one out? Ugh. Back to Ivanhoe and simple, elegant, understandable, predictable plots.