Book Club

I'm currently involved in two book clubs. Surprised, right? Let me explain. I join book clubs because I like to know what people are reading. I equate a book club with the "recommendation" function on Amazon.com. I have no intention of ever showing up to a meeting and discussing the actual text, but I like to think that I'm keeping the proverbial door open for the future possibility.

My book clubs are great. It's like I'm part of the group, but at an arm's length. I take note of current readings and sometimes even read the books by the next scheduled meeting. I'm pretty sure that other members in my book clubs don't know I'm in the club or even exist. Is this weird? Yes. Of course it is.

What's the point of being "part" of a book club if you don't participate in discussions? For me, it's about the books. Maybe they aren't like this, but I have this picture in my mind of a group of over-educated and under-employed pseudo-intellectuals and aspiring writers volleying back and forth about the symbolism of that obscure detail on page 17. That detail that the author just included for the sole purpose of being descriptive and didn't intend for it to be scrutinized in such a manner. Perhaps it will crumble my self-image of a comprehensive reader, coming to the realization that I'm intellectually inadequate.

In addition, I fear the conversation. I inevitably judge people based on what they say (we all do it). Actually it's usually not an issue because I'm not very passionate about many things (books included), but certain authors and certain works have a special place in my library. I'm apprehensive about talking to people about certain books because sometimes reading a book is a personal experience and sharing that experience just doesn't make me comfortable around strangers.

The single largest reason that I'm perpetually absent from the book club is attributed to the realistic possibility that others just don't and won't get "it." I know that sounds pretentious, but it's true. Some may argue that it's such a "misunderstanding" that makes each experience personal, but I can't cope with someone not understanding why Lolita is so great or why Salinger doesn't just appeal to pubescent boys. Believe me I've considered the other side of the argument - that there's something healthy about debate.

In case you hadn't noticed, my neurotic sense of being thinks that there is nothing healthy about you being "wrong" in my mind. I immediately place you in that compartmentalized box in my brain which is reserved for mental midgets, even if that doesn't describe you at all. All it takes is one contrary thought about something I'm passionate about and you immediately fall from the lofty ideal to reality. I'm sorry, but that's just the way it is. Yeah, I'm the judgmental asshole here. At least I'm honest. So, do you still want to talk about that book?