My wife says that I only like to read sad books. She says that, when we go to the bookstore and she reads the summaries on the backs of the books that I just bought, she can tell right away if I’m going to like them or not, long before I even read them. And she’s usually right, too. At least, she’s right about whether or not I’ll end up liking them.
But just because she’s right doesn’t mean that I only like to read sad books. If fact. I think her books are way sadder than mine. She likes crime fiction mainly, those authors with long series of books based on some sort of theme, like the alphabet, colors or numbers. She likes One for Evanovich and G is for Grafton the most. She likes Patricia Cornwell, too, but lately she’s been more into Karen Slaughter, who’s like Cornwell’s way darker and way edgier and way sadder little sister.
These books are more than just crime fiction, sure. I get it. They’re about tough women, funny women, strong women, who, as the bodies and horrid images of mutilation and murder pile up, always seem to get their “man” in the end. Again and again. Book after book.
Don’t get me wrong. I’m not a book snob.
I love a good potboiler. In fact, Raymond Chandler, Dashiell Hammett, Cornell Woolrich and, more recently, Walter Mosley are some of my favorite writers of all time, and I consider their books classics, the kind of books I turn to again and again, book after book, to admire their craft.
But sometimes when I read, most of the time, I guess, I want more than just entertainment, and more than just great writing or great storytelling. I want experience. I want to plunge myself into the world of someone else and to walk in their shoes for a few days. And those long series of happy-ending books just don’t do it for me.
You see, I love to read. And I consider myself a good reader, an empathetic reader, the best kind! It’s not just a hobby or a pastime for me. It’s a huge part of life, of who I am. It’s why, for the last decade or so, I’ve continued to write about books and writers even though I’ve made very little money at it. It’s why I suffered through the odd stares and raised eyebrows I got whenever people found out that I worked two jobs, 65 hours a week, just to pay for my college tuition as an English major.
But, to settle the debate, my wife and I have agreed to leave it in your hands.
Below you will find three books that I’ve recently read and extremely enjoyed that my wife says proves that I only like to read sad books. The books are all very different from one another. One is from 1970, one from 1996 and one is from 2005. Two of the books are fiction and one is a memoir – and each book’s protagonist is extremely different.
All of the books, however, have three things in common.
1) They are all coming-of-age stories
2) Each of the main characters face very challenging circumstances
3) I will never forget these incredible people. They’ve each managed to join forces with the hundreds of sad Holden Caulfields and lonely Arturo Bandinis who live joyfully forever in my memories.
I’m not going to review them any further or continue to persuade you to the dark and sad side. If you choose to participate in this debate, however, (whether you’ve already read these books or not) I only ask that you report back here and share what you think about these works. Am I just a sad sap reader, or is there more to these works than what wells up the eyes? I leave it in your hands…Happy reading!
To see the 3 books I picked, visit The Journal of Cultural Conversation, and don't forget to post your comments.
