Thanks to my dear friend, Stef, who lent me the book A Dirty Job by Christopher Moore several months ago (and I’ve just now gotten around to reading), I’ve come to an important realization:
The best books tend to be the ones you can’t possibly describe. If you can fit it into a neat little package, it’s probably lacking a lot in creativity and imagination. It might still be a decent read, especially if the writing is good, but it’s not going to leave any deep imprint on your brain.
I think of it sort of like good food. Sure, I might get a really good burger at a chain joint, but am I going to think of it in again in a week? Unlikely. A month? Probably not. A year? Almost certainly not. But I can still almost taste in my mouth the fabulous lamb chops at a local Middle Eastern restaurant. The way they almost melt in your mouth. The hint of garlic. The buttery rice it’s piled on, loaded with tiny, slivered almonds.
And I gotta tell you, I’m not even halfway through A Dirty Job, but right now, I’m expecting to remember that melt-in-your-mouth literary flavor and tiny, slivered bibliophile almonds for a long time.
