Some books are origami. It’s a most interesting art I think, taking a finite, almost one dimensional thing and patiently folding it onto itself until it becomes something alive and intricate. Even more amazing about origami is that it is often not the folds that become a permanent part of the finished product that matter the most. Sometimes it is the lines that are left by the unfolding steps that make the biggest impact. These books, they build a little bird in your soul that never leaves.
Some books strive to be origami, but end up as balloon animals instead. The subject matter itself fails to have levity–interesting yes, but lacking in a timelessness and somehow hollow. Instead of detailed creases and deliberate pertinent folds in the plot, the book is built with twists upon twists. Sometimes, a turn is so awkward that my brain reacts in the same uncomfortable way it does when a balloon squeals with abused surprise. The finished product? Charming but short lived. A carnival treat, a delightful moment quickly forgotten. A fleeting good time.
I’ve been reading mostly the latter lately and I’m bored. I need a new crinkle in my soul that can only be gained by a perfect new read. I’m looking for suggestions, please. No limits–I like all genres (Except self help–there are enough voices in my head, thank you) and I should probably admit that I’m a serious bookaholic so pretty much all classic lit is already done. Maybe a great historical nonfiction? A story that is so incredulous that it aches that it’s true? An autobiography of a mind that I want to take up residence in for a day? I’d love some suggestions. I’m not allowed to go to the book store to browse for the same reason that I’m not allowed in the pound. I want all the lovelies. Thank you in advance.