The Catcher in the Rye is a great read, but that’s not what I”m going to talk about. That wheel was invented, and I’m sick of hearing about it. I have different reasons for its greatness.
My uncle always bought me bookstore gift cards. He knew I didn’t like to read. I think that was his point. I suck at reading. I find myself pausing while turning a page, realizing I do not remember what I had read moments ago. I come across a word, which triggers a tangent thought, and I go off thinking about that while the other half of my mind continues advances through the words. Actually, I guess it’s not that I suck at reading; I suck at comprehension and retention. You cannot multitask why reading. That’s why I like movies. I can listen to the dialogue, but I can also simultaneously analyze the on-screen action or cinematic technique without losing too much context.
My 12th birthday came and so did another bookstore gift card. My mother dragged me to the store, reminding me, “You must only shop in the book section. If I catch you in the music department, you’re grounded. You have 10 minutes.” I hated that. She knew very well that in order to shop I needed to at least casually survey the music department. You see, I can’t dive straight into shopping like most people. All good athletes warm up first. And to me, shopping is a sport – not one I particularly enjoy, but a sport nonetheless. That process cannot be limited to a mere 10 minutes.
My shopping excursion began in teen, wandered through history, skimmed through sci-fi, and sprinted through self-help. Nothing jumped out at me, and my 10 minutes were up. I did the dreaded. I walked back empty-handed towards my mother in the checkout line. And much to my surprise, she didn’t yell at me.
My mother seemingly grabbed a book at random and said, “Here. Why don’t you try this one?” My jaw hit the floor. This book had a white cover. A white cover. I was never allowed to have white things. They didn’t stay that way for long. Did this mean my mother finally trusted me with nice things? I bought it before she could come to her senses – before she would wake up from her psychosis and realize what she had done.
I cherished this book. It sat on my bookshelf for months out of fear. Fear of smudging the cover. Fear of dog-earing a page. Fear of destroying the binding. It’s funny because now I like it for the very reasons I feared. I love the distressed, gray cover; it shows character. I love the dog-eared pages; they mark my favorite passages. I love the way I wrote my name on the inside cover; it shows my 6th grade personality. But most of all, I love fanning the pages. I can hold it a good 6 inches from my nose and still smell its old aroma.
Sure, I love this book because it’s a great story, but a story isn’t everything. Sometimes it’s okay to judge a book by its cover.
