Things I love: timeless books

I set out this morning to write about a few of my favorite things, beloved treasures I’m pleased to own and excited to be wrapping for special friends and family members this holiday season. But I hadn’t gotten far when I realized I’d have to break my list into two parts. Books today (there are just so many I adore and want to share); everything else, next time. (Links are in blue.)

Charlotte’s Web, written and read by E.B. White
At dinner a few weeks ago a dear friend and I talked about our all-time favorite books. Charlotte has been at the top of my list for decades. I cherished it as a child, read it many times to my own sons, and then, as they learned to read themselves, loved hearing them read it to me, complete with voices for each animal. (When I read, I would always have to hand the book over to one of the boys for the last chapter; I could never make it through without tears.)

Last spring the New York Times published a piece in honor of Charlotte’s 60th anniversary; turns out E.B. White couldn’t read the final pages of his own book without choking up. It took him 17 tries to get through Charlotte’s death; even so, he read the ending with a catch in his voice. I never knew an audio version existed, but of course I ordered it immediately and I finally listened this week, on my daily dog walks. In short: pure pleasure. The book holds up (more than that, it soars; every word is perfect). I smiled all the way through. I cried at the end. And then I came home and ordered more copies, for my dinner companion and for all the other book lovers on my list, young and old.

So Long, See You Tomorrow by William Maxwell (and read by him, too)
My friend’s all-time favorite book is William Maxwell’s small, haunting reminiscence of a childhood friendship shattered by murder. I first read this spare, tender novel 27 years ago and it broke my heart then. My friend’s admiration inspired me to take it from the shelf again. On Thanksgiving night, I settled in by the fire and re-read it cover to cover. My friend is right: Maxwell has no peer.

In a few austere, breathtakingly powerful chapters, he explores the meaning of friendship, the scars of childhood loss, the price of passion, the meaning of love, the redemptive power of self-forgiveness. Turns out, Maxwell, who died in 2000, also recorded an unabridged version of his classic novel. And even though it’s fresh in my mind, I’m listening to it now, feeling as if I’ve just discovered a precious, priceless treasure. My holiday mantra for William Maxwell: Read. Listen. Give unto others.

Frog and Toad books by Arnold Lobel. (And Frog and Toad Audio Collection, performed by the author.)
Yes, I’m definitely on a listening kick. A lifelong passionate reader but a recent convert to audiobooks, I find myself looking forward to any excuse these days to lace up my sneakers, put in my earbuds, and head outside. (True confession: I’ve also missed a few exits on the interstate, so caught up have I been in the story unfolding over the car speakers.) Finding some of my all-time favorite works read by their authors has been a joy, and hearing the stories I love told to me as if by a friend is not a substitute for reading, it is a different experience entirely – intimate, intense, and wonderful.

Frog and Toad were, hands down, the most popular books in our household. Billed as “I Can Read Books,” they are so much more than beginning texts for six year olds. They are profound. They are hilarious. They are unforgettable. These two best pals are also so true-to-life in their depictions of friendship and the challenges of being alive and growing up that we all quote our favorite lines even now. Ask anyone in our family, “What literary characters reside permanently in your heart?” We would answer unanimously: Frog and Toad. We will never outgrow them. Nor will you.

The Snowman by Raymond Briggs.
When my boys were born, a friend of my mom’s began sending us a carefully chosen Christmas book each year. Over the years, as our library grew, these books became a sacred part of our holiday tradition. On Thanksgiving, we would carry the box of books up from the basement and then, each evening until Christmas, we would sit down on the couch and read aloud together. No matter that we read the same books over and over again; the best ones became our own private classics. The books that were truly magical, we discovered, never grew old.

The Snowman, a wordless story told in soft yet unforgettable pastel images, IS magic on a page. Sometimes we would “read” this book in complete, companionable silence. Sometimes we would talk about the snowman’s nocturnal adventures with the little boy who built him and and became his friend. Later, we bought the video and discovered that rare thing: a book that is actually enhanced by its leap from page to screen. Fortunately the video is also wordless; an exquisite, unforgettable score is the perfect accompaniment to the animated images, rendered painstakingly from the book and even more moving when brought to life. This book (once again available in hardcover – don’t buy the small boardbook edition or any of the knock-offs!) and/or video would make a memorable gift for any family on your list.

A Christmas Memory by Truman Capote.
We came late to this small, lovely reminiscence of a little boy’s holiday preparations with his odd, outcast aunt. Eight years ago, spending our first Christmas away from the house our boys had grown up in, we were all at a loss, feeling more sad and cranky than cheerful. One night after supper, in a somewhat desperate attempt to foster some holiday spirit, I literally forced my family to sit down for a story. There was grumbling and sighing – trying to get an 11-year-old and a high schooler and a husband to all agree to be read to is like herding cats – but, somewhat to my surprise, Truman Capote captivated us all.

We haven’t missed an annual read-aloud in the last eight years, and we often share this little-known classic now with assorted guests and friends who are delighted to hear it for the first time. This book, published in 1956, inspired Jack, at 11, to declare Truman Capote his favorite writer. Each year, we marvel anew at the perfection of the prose, the bittersweet humor, the way a strange, eccentric lady taught a sensitive child about the real meaning of Christmas and the grace of unconditional love. (For someone really special, look for the now out-of-print slipcased hardcover edition; it is still available from used booksellers, and worth having in your library.)

The House of Belonging by David Whyte.
This is the collection I will press into the hands of every poetry lover on my list this year. “Poetry,” says David Whyte, is “language against which we have no defenses.” I can say this: I have no defenses against the poetry of this soulful, wholehearted writer. Every poem I read by this man gives voice to what lives in my own heart. Reading him lifts my spirit, reminds me who I am and what I care about. He writes of dailiness and small moments, of nature and rootedness, hearth and home, love and belonging. This is poetry unadorned, simple and graceful and true. It is poetry that invites you to stop and listen to what is deep and silent within you, to pause in gratitude for your life, and to honor that life enough to nurture all that makes it good: our own work, solitude and connection, writing and reading, gardens and clean sheets, our children, our partners, our friends.

I hope you find as much pleasure in the words and voices (and images) of these writers as I have. It is a great pleasure to widen this reading circle, to introduce my most cherished literary friends to you. And do tell me: What books are you reading and sharing this holiday season?

From “The Winter of Listening” by David Whyte

Inside everyone
is a great shout of joy
waiting to be born.

Even with summer
so far off
I feel it grown in me
now and ready
to arrive in the world.

All those years
listening to those
who had nothing to say.

All those years
forgetting
how everything
has its own voice
to make itself heard.

All those years
forgetting
how easily
you can belong to everything
simpy by listening.

And the slow
difficulty of remembering
how everything
is born from
an opposite
and miraculous
otherness.

Silence and winter
has lead me to that
otherness.

So let this winter
of listening
be enough
for the new life
I must call my own.

(I encourage you to shop at your own independent bookstore this season. Links to Amazon may yield a small commission if books are purchased; I use those commissions to fund book giveaways on the website.)