I requested the newest book by Paul Watkins from the library, and they bought it for the collection. It looks like I’m about to complete The Ice Soldier in one week. It’s clear that this author has developed a following, which has scant meaning to any particular reader, and that he’s also earned heaps of critical praise, but so have writers I find unreadable. All I care to know is that I’ve found a novelist who consistently delivers the goods for me. That’s enormously satisfying, although I’m sure I’d require his remarkable verbal skills to adequately put my appreciation into words.
There seems to be two main reasons to own a copy of a novel. First of all, it provides the opportunity to reach out and connect at one’s own volition, like telephoning a good friend. And, of course, the other reason is to loan it to those same friends. I want to own this book, but it occurs to me that a measure of my fondness for my friends will be whether I convince myself to buy two copies…