My favorite book of all times

I’ve been immersed in my data the last couple weeks and have also doing a lot of reading on everything from maternal investment, the evolution of lactation, birth seasonality in mammals, and parent-offspring conflict in order to make sense of my results. Its shaping up to be pretty interesting, I think.

Over Labor Day weekend, I needed a bit of a break from academics and I happened to come across my copy of Circle of Friends by Maeve Binchy. The last time I read this book must have been about 10 years ago. In a way, it was almost like reading it for the first time again, but also it was all strangely familiar. I didn’t really have to get to know the characters all over again, because I’ve already known them for a long time. But I’d forgotten so much of what had happened in the book that I was glued to it and could barely put it down. Its a really nice way to read a book. Very bittersweet and sad-but-hopeful—which are things that I love in a book but perhaps less so in real life.

I used to be an avid reader but haven’t had much time for fiction in grad school. Except of course for last year, when I was in the field and had nothing to do other than watch the monkeys. I read dozens of books over the year, and I realized that I have really discriminating tastes when it comes to literature. I tried some books that friends had recommended, but I often found them lame or disappointing (the books, not the friends) and was sometimes left with the distinct impression that I could write something better. The best book, by far, that I read all year in Nicaragua was Barbara Kingsolver’s The Bean Trees. Everyone had told me that her other book, The Poisionwood Bible was amazing. I liked that one too, but still, nothing compared to The Bean Trees. I decided that it was the best book ever written.

I’d forgotten about Circle of Friends though. Its going to have to be at least a tie. Circle of Friends broke a few of my cardinal rules—it is written in the third person, and it has the odd habit of telling you what a character’s traits are (ie, “Nan was cool and distant”) rather than describing it in a way that simply leads you to that conclusion yourself. I usually find both of these things to be annoying. But not this time. Its at least a tie for the Best Book of All Times. What makes it so good is that somehow this book tells my story, even though I don’t seem to have much in common with the main character—an overweight girl growing up Catholic in Ireland in the 1950’s. I can’t stop thinking about this book since I’ve finished it, and I have more than half-considered just picking it up and reading it all over again.

At any rate, I’m going back to Knockglen… I mean P-town… this weekend to visit with my family, run a half-marathon, and see an old friend. Will write more later, thanks for reading.