And so this is why you should never literally judge a book by its cover.

Went to town last week, and there was a used-book sale at the public library. In a major city, you can sometimes find truly worthwhile bargains at one of those. Imagine the picked-over slop to be found in the seat of one of the poorest counties in the country.

There was this large, thick hardback, retired from a library, suspiciously new-looking and with the “Oprah’s Book Club” kiss of death on the cover…

But what the hell? It cost a quarter. Also it was titled “Freedom,” and I like freedom.

I still don’t know why the author called it “Freedom.” It had nothing whatsoever to do with any interpretation of that word, as far as I can tell from reading the first 200 pages and skimming the remaining 350 or so. What it was, was a story about a dysfunctional middle class family and how awful it all was to be…I dunno…

Written in a ‘literary’ style, if there is such a thing. Nothing ever actually happens in this book, there’s little in the way of a perceptible plot, except people being terrible to each other for unexamined reasons or no perceptible reasons at all. But I’m pretty sure it sold a ton, because Oprah.

I always feel vaguely like a failure in life when I can’t force my way through to the end of a ‘literary’ novel. When that happens with a sci fi, or a western, or a mystery, I blame the author. I suspect that’s where the blame actually belongs, because I do in fact finish most books I start.

Memories of things you did when you were a small child are always suspect, but I distinctly remember learning to read with an absolute will, having formed the ironclad intention to become a voracious reader. I knew that there was a lot I was missing, and that it was hidden in those books I couldn’t read. I set about correcting that very deliberately. And unlike most of my childhood resolutions – I also intended to be the world’s greatest sword fighter – I stuck with that one. I am indeed a voracious reader and always have been. But I’m also a very unaccomplished one. I’ve read – or at least finished – very few of the “great books.” To this day I don’t understand what’s supposed to be so special about all those wordy Russians, and virtually every writer ever mentioned on NPR is a complete stranger to me.

I don’t know – maybe it’s because they’re invariably about nothing but angst. And when I read for pleasure that’s the last thing I want to see, because except for the last decade of my life so far I always had lots of that already. Reading a book about angst would be like going to a nice restaurant and ordering a PB&J sandwich. “Literary” fiction never uplifts me or educates me, it only irritates me. And I avoid irritants wherever possible, especially when they’re recommended by Oprah Winfrey.

This has left me, going into old age, with an encyclopedic knowledge of boys’ long-form science fiction of the 1950’s and 60’s, and a fairly eclectic familiarity with later genre fiction, and not much else. Spent much of my life thinking that must somehow make me a lesser person. But now I’m well into my 60’s, and find I don’t really give much of a damn any more.

Wonder if I’ve got any E. E. Smith lying around?