Delayed Gratification

There is a book on the table in the next room. It’s just a book, nothing distinctive about it except for two things: it’s by my second-favorite author in the whole world and I haven’t read it yet.

Once upon a time, I read a book (different author) that was so good, that I was enjoying so much, that I stopped right in the middle of a page and flipped back a few pages and reread them. The anticipation was agonizing, but I knew that no matter how many times I read the book again (and I reread it every couple of years) I would never have that sense of discovery when I found out what happened next. I would know, you see. Forever after, I could still enjoy the story, but I would know what it was.

My memory isn’t what it used to be. I have the luxury of rereading mysteries and having no idea whodunit. I try new authors, sadly fewer of them as time goes by because I’ve lost patience with mediocrity, but I do try. It’s rare to find a story in any medium that has that power to subsume reality and give me the sense that not only am I in the midst of something Other, but it’s an Other where I want to be.

So the book sits there. Once I open it, I won’t put it down until it’s done. And then it will be over.