Ways We Discover Books

We usually discover the books we love in fairly ordinary ways.

A friend recommends one. A teacher assigns it in a class. We browse through a bookstore or scroll through Amazon, and something catches our eye. Sometimes a favorite author mentions a book that influenced them. Occasionally, a celebrity book club pick sends people running to the shelves.

That’s how I discovered most of my favorite books. In elementary school, the teacher read aloud The Indian in the Cupboard by Lynne Reid Banks (she left out the word “Hell…” It was as bad as the F-word then). Dick Gregory’s autobiography, Nigger, I discovered from an episode of Boston Public. And my all-time favorite novel, Atlas Shrugged by Ayn Rand, I saw on a reading list. All completely conventional.

But there’s one book I love that came into my life for a very unconventional reason.

Spite.

Yes, really.

Many years ago my girlfriend and I were talking about books we thought were terrible. Not just disappointing ones, but the kind you think are truly awful. I probably said, “Anything by Danielle Steel.” She immediately said the worst book ever written was Illusions: The Adventures of a Reluctant Messiah by Richard Bach.

I had never even heard of it.

When she told me the author, I pointed out that she owned a copy of his book A Bridge Across Forever, which was sitting right there on her shelf. It seemed unlikely that someone who wrote a book she owned, and enjoyed, could also have written the worst book ever published.

She insisted it was exactly that. The worst book ever written. Her review of it was absolutely scathing. I think she had a little foam coming from her mouth. It was kind of adorable.

I said, “Maybe I should read it. It probably isn’t that bad.”

She informed me that the book was not allowed in her house. Period.

Now, if you know anything about me at all, you know that telling me something is forbidden is a very good way to guarantee that I will do exactly that thing. I do so enjoy being contrary.

So, a few days later, I was browsing in my favorite used bookstore. On a whim, I checked the shelf to see if they had it. And there it was. One lone paperback copy. Clean, too. Practically waiting for me.

So, of course, I bought it.

After my bookstore trip, I went to her place. She was busy in another room, so I sat down in a chair, pulled the book out, and started reading. I loved it almost immediately. I honestly couldn’t understand what she found so terrible about it.

A little while later she came into the room, saw the book in my hands, and screamed, “OH MY GOD! YOU BROUGHT THAT AWFUL, AWFUL BOOK INTO MY HOUSE! NOW I’LL HAVE TO HAVE IT FUMIGATED!”

Hardly able to keep from smiling my contrary smile, I told her, “I actually think it’s fantastic.”

She said she could no longer be with me. She couldn’t be with someone who read trash.

For the record, we did not actually break up then. We dated quite a while longer. I had to sleep on the couch for a week, though. Eventually, we reached a compromise: I could read the book in the closet, under blankets, with a flashlight, between the hours of 3 and 4 in the morning so she would be asleep and not have to see it.

Though it has been years since I originally picked up the book, simply out of spite, I still think about it and revisit it from time to time, and it is still a favorite. It just goes to show that while we usually discover books we love in the normal ways, sometimes the best ones enter our lives through the strangest doors imaginable.

In my case, one of them arrived through pure, stubborn spite.