In my last post I concluded by raving about Michelle Paver's Dark Matter, and that got me thinking about the problems that come with recommending books. What problems? I hear you say - probably because you have a life to lead and don't allow yourself to get unduly disturbed by life's lesser paradoxes.
Nevertheless, I can't be the only person in the world to have noticed that a gushing book recommendation nearly always results in disappointment. Even if the book in question is good, a teensy bit of frustration seems all-but-inevitable, especially if you're a gullible type who's liable to take other people's effusions very literally. "Your life will never be the same after reading this book", affirms the Arts & Books section of the Saturday paper, so I go to extraordinary lengths to obtain said book and turn to page one with palpitating heart, bidding a fond farewell to my old life as I do so, only to emerge two hundred and forty seven pages later feeling a little flat and thinking "...oh."
On the other hand, being in love with a book is like being in love with a person: cautious language feels pathetic and cold and altogether inadequate. You don't want to say "Hmm..." when you're really thinking, "Yes! Yes! Yes!" so you don't - can't - hold back in your praise. Phrases like "eye-poppingly, mind-bogglingly stupendous" suddenly seem quite tame, and as a result your inflamed listener goes to extraordinary lengths to obtain said book and turns to page one with palpitating heart, bidding a fond farewell to their old lives as they do so, only to emerge two hundred and forty seven pages later feeling a little flat and thinking "...oh."
I suppose there are worse things to lie awake fretting over.
