Stories that stick

A while back, the "let's own less" bug hit me, and I suddenly went from a person who glorified in the size of her home library to a person who could hardly claim for herself more than a third of the volumes in the house. (And who, incidentally, had made a nice little sum from Amazon Marketplace...)

It's the librarian in me, contrary to popular belief, who has become convicted of the need to not keep a million books around the house; perhaps I took my lessons on "weeding" a little too seriously - but trust me - you'll thank me when it comes time to have a moving party, and I call you, offering pizza for packing help...

Anyway, I've been working on P, but apparently he didn't swallow the same crazy pill. Recently, I begged him to consider parting with some of his Tom Wolfe books. "You didn't even really like Bonfire of the Vanities? Why keep it around?" Tricky boy. I only now realize how deftly he changed the flow of the conversation in order to sidestep my efforts completely.

He didn't answer immediately, and so I prodded him to give one reason - just one - that this book was worth the real estate it occupied on our shelves. His reason? "It's just one of those books that, you know, sticks with you."

I now know that he must've meant that literally (since it continues to diligently collect dust on our shelf), but at the time, the remark really resonated with me. There are a lot of literary experiences like that - whether they are novels or news articles or films or plays. Maybe you didn't like them at the time, but they just stick with you. It's the kind of thing that you don't want your freshman English teacher to know (but you should tell him/her anyway, if you can - freshman English teachers need that kind of reassurance).

What's funny about these books (or movies or plays or whatever) is that you aren't keeping them around in your grey matter (or on your shelves) because you really enjoyed them or plan on rereading them or recommending them to others - but you know you just wouldn't be the same person without them. It's like you owe them something. And you probably do.

In our past history of striving to keep up with all the Oscar nominees, P and I have watched a number of films that I would never (repeat: NEVER) have chosen to watch for any other reason. Some of those, I'd prefer to leave completely behind me. Others turned out to be worth the experience (but don't even ask me to do it again).

Now that we've given up on that effort (hard to see eight or ten movies in the theater in one month's time when you have a kid), most of what we watch is, well, fluffy. (And I take full responsibility for that.) But every once in a while, something Quality slips in - like a month or two ago when we had to check out Get Low because The Switch was unavailable at our nearby Redbox. Parts of that movie were hard for me to watch - and it certainly wasn't your cotton candy flick. But it was so good. And P and I talked about it for days afterwards - such an interesting story of redemption as well as an excellent example of gifted acting and filmmaking. We have since seen The Switch, and I must confess I was ready to forget that movie as soon as the credits began to roll.

But that's how it is, isn't it? No matter how yummy that cookies tastes, it's the broccoli that does us some actual good. Sometimes we just need a bit of the sweet stuff - but I'm so thankful for the wonderful, gifted writers and artists who dare to bring us the stories and truths that are so much harder to swallow.

If you care to comment, I'd love to know - what's a piece that has stuck with you?