For me, one of the delights of not being in school has always been rediscovering my love of reading. Armed with a library card, a decent used bookstore, a friend or two with a good library, and adequate free time, I can disappear for hours and hours. I resurface feeling slightly bleary-eyed, empty yet more full. The best books always leave me a bit sad, even if their contents made me laugh so loudly that I attract the attention of folks in airports or my sleeping cat. While I've asserted in this blog before, that reading does not count as writing, the two are closely intertwined. When I'm reading a lot, I write a lot.
Today I devoured Ann Patchett's novel Truth & Beauty, her memoir about her friendship with Lucy Grealy, a poet and the author of Autobiography of a Face. I'd never heard of Lucy Grealy or read anything that Ann Patchett had written. Bel Canto stares at me every time I look for something to read at my parents' house, but I'm always daunted by the description on the back and the awards it has written. I don't instantly relate to the description on the dust jacket, but I do relate to a story about friendship.
I used to cry a lot when I was growing up, but it's become a rarer occurrence. It occurs when I've had too much to drink and not enough to eat, or when I'm talking about myself and my future. I avoid it as much as possible. I don't like to burden myself or others with my sadness, as from an objective standpoint, I have very little to be sad about. Movies and TV shows provide a free pass for tears. If I can project sadness onto an episode of How I Met Your Mother, I am safe. Books on the other hand, are a more personal matter. There's no sense in crying if there's no audience to provide a possibility of relief. When you finish a book, there's no tangible evidence. People don't hear you reading it. Books may put me into a mental state of sadness, but they seldom bring on any physical symptoms of it. But when I finished Truth & Beauty an hour ago, I cried.
The last time I remember crying after reading a book, I was 13 or 14 and I'd just finished one of the Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants books. Both books are about friendship and loving a person unconditionally. I think I sometimes have difficulty forming romantic relationships because it's hard to comprehend loving anyone more than I love some of my friends. I'd think long and hard before moving somewhere for a romantic partner, but I'd move to live closer to friends in a heartbeat. In fact, friendship is one of the biggest reasons I moved to Boulder.
The thing is, Lucy Grealy sounds like a difficult person to be friends with. She requires constant reassurance and seems to provide little in return. I've have a few friends like that, and while I swear up and down that I would follow them to the ends of the earth, I haven't. I've distanced myself from them very deliberately in an act of self-preservation. I'm not sure I have the strength or wherewithal to stand by a friend in the same way that Ann Patchett did.
This also reminded me of what I'd like to call Lockman's Transitive Property, and makes me worry about where I fit into it in regards to friendship.
Lockman's Transitive Property goes as follows:
a. If you don't have a weird roommate, you are the weird roommate. (This is almost always true in groups of 3 or more)
b. If you don't have a gay cousin, you are the gay cousin. (This one is less often true, but thought-provoking nonetheless)
So can it apply to friendship as well? If you don't have a friend who is difficult and incredibly needy, are you the friend who is difficult and incredibly needy? Have I become this person for some of my friends?
These are the kinds of thoughts that occur most often after spending the better part of a Sunday reading a good book. It's too far past my bedtime to develop many deliverables beyond the following list.
1. Write more
2. Get a library card
3. Cry sober
4. Be a good friend
5. Go to sleep
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