Head Like A Hole [part II]

Continued from Part I

There's a woman on the committee who I'll call Pia. It's an acronym; short for something of mine in which she is a pain.

The long list of books we're considering for next year's campus-wide reading program comprises just over 80 titles. The purpose of this meeting is to strike from the list any titles we all feel are inappropriate, for one reason or another. I had requested review copies from the publishers, and now the table around which we sit is loaded with stacks and stacks of books. The lovely people at Harper Collins, for example, sent copies of their titles for all the committee members.

Each person at the meeting has in front of him or her a printed copy of my spreadsheet, listing all the titles and authors, and including a column with a short review cribbed from Amazon.com; the number of pages, the category, and the reason why it made the long list.

We come to #18, My Life As A Furry Red Monster.

"That wasn't suggested by one of the reading groups," points out Pia, primly. She's referring to the reason why this title made the list. "It was suggested by me." She picks up the lone review copy by one of its corners and dangles it like a soiled diaper. "I suppose we should strike it," she declares, disgustedly. "It was a lovely experiment, though, wasn't it? Just look at that curb appeal!"

The book is the size and shape of a children's book. The cover is bright yellow, with a photograph of Sesame Street's Elmo sitting astride the author's head. I say nothing in response to Pia's admission that it was she who was responsible for this travesty. Unless a book is defended at this stage, it is struck, and not only did I want to strike the book, I wanted to strike Pia with the book.

#22: The Places In Between

"I'd like to point out emphatically," points out Pia emphatically, "that this book is not a travelogue."

The spreadsheet which I'd painstakingly compiled over the past three weeks does indeed list the book as NF/travelogue. I smile as politely as I can, and refrain from jumping onto the table — thereby scattering the books in all directions, a fate they do not deserve — so I can grab hold of her chicken neck and throttle her. Instead I say, sweetly, "I copied the descriptions from Amazon.com; they're just for our reference."

"Oh, well, but really, calling that book a travelogue is like calling The Joy of Cooking just a cookbook, when it's so much more..."

And she goes on to tell us just exactly how much more it is.

When she's finished her monologue on the travelogue; this book only she cares about, one of the other committe members makes a suggestion: "Perhaps we should strike it from the list because it's set in Afghanistan. We don't want to do a book that's too similar to this year's book."

This year's campus reading program title is The Kite Runner. It's a largely autobiographical novel about a man who grows up in Afghanistan in the 1970s, then flees to America with his father after the Russians take over. As an adult, circumstances require him to return to his homeland in the summer of 2001. The Places In Between is about some guy who walks across Afghanistan and gripes, the entire way, about how not enough people supported his effort. So I second the motion to strike it.

Pia reminds us that a book stays on the list if any member is willing to defend it, and she is willing to defend it to the death. I begin to hope it might come to that.

#40: Rocks That Float

"I've never heard of it, let's strike it," opines Pia piously.

"It's on the list because it won the 2006 Independent Publishers Book Award for Fiction. I've read it, and it's a beautifully written novel about quirky characters living in rural South Carolina. And for both of those reasons, it should stay on the long list."

It was not a question, and as I spoke it I thrust forward my breasts ever so slightly as homage to Julia Roberts as Erin Brockovich.

#64: Saving Fish From Drowning

"It looks too big," bemoans Pia belligerently. "Let's strike it."

"I think we should seriously consider this one," I say. "I believe it lends itself to a number of different applications in the classroom and in discussion groups; it's contemporary, it's a mystery, it has a novel narrative premise; it's partially set in Myanmar, and the main character is an old Chinese woman, so it meets our criteria of "broadening their horizons" which I feel is very important."

I don't stop to let her get a contrary word in, but instead hold the book out to her. "Here," I say, "We only have the one review copy, and I've read it. Why don't you take a look at it?"

"Oh no!" Pia exclaims, and backs away as though I had drawn a sword. "I wouldn't have time to read it, it's too big!"

"When I say look at it, I don't mean that you have to read the whole thing. When I say I read it, what I meant was, I read the liner notes; read the first 30 pages, then I skimmed through the middle, stopping at a few points to read a few paragraphs; then I read the last chapter to see how it ends."

"Oh, I couldn't do that!" pouts Pia petulantly. "If I pick up a book I absolutely have to read the whole thing.

Two hours later, we have finally whittled the long list down to 48 titles. The dozen or so members of the committee are gathering their review copies to leave. The chair of the committee is asking about free dates next month. And that's exactly when Pia says, "Oh, before we leave, there's one more book we should consider. It just won the Booker Prize. I don't remember what it's called but it's written by a woman who lives in London and she's the youngest..."

It was for Pia's own safety that I turned my back on her, bid good-day to the committee chair, and walked out the door.

This marks the end of the meeting, and, if there is a God, the end of Pia. It is not, however, the end of Postmodern Sass's reflections on Neil Gaiman.