Readers—and
writers—are often asked to name their favorite book. The question leaves most
of us, it seems, struggling for an answer. Here’s why.
A friend
sent me an article a while back in which a writer was asked to write about her
favorite book. She concluded that there have been several books that were her
favorites at various times of life.
That sounds
right to me. And I would add that most of those favorites remain favorites.
There are books I read decades ago that I go back to and enjoy all over again.
There are others that stick in my memory that I haven’t re-read, but plan to
someday. And there are books I enjoyed at the time, but not enough to be my
“favorite.”
Back in my
high school years, perhaps as early as junior high, I engaged in what we would
now call “binge reading” the short novels of John Steinbeck. Of Mice and Men. Cannery Row. Tortilla Flat.
The Red Pony. The Pearl. I read those, and others, back then and I have read them
over and over since.
Later, I
likewise enjoyed his longer books—East of
Eden, The Grapes of Wrath, The Winter of Our Discontent, Travels with Charley…. I have read those
and others more than once, and will likely read them again.
Steinbeck
is, perhaps, the first writer I read whose way of writing I noticed. Beyond the
stories, beyond the characters, I enjoyed the words he chose and the way he
assembled those words into phrases and sentences that, despite what they said,
were engaging all on their own and a joy to read.
They were
then, and they still are.
Given all
that, I guess my favorite book is Tortilla
Flat. Or The Red Pony. Or
something else by John Steinbeck.
Or maybe
something else altogether. It all depends.
