I try to check in with The Hairpin regularly, and today this post about The Secret History caught my eye. (Oh, apparently it's actually on The Awl. It's cross-posted, I swear!) For starters, what a great book, right? But this is what grabbed me: "Do you have a guest room? Put this next to the bed." I have two tiny nightstands (not even tables! Just stands! They barely hold a lamp!) on either side of my bed (or on one side, staggered, depending on my mood) and I always, always have books on them. The books, however, are not my TBR pile. They're just...books? That I own? That one night I felt like reading a passage or poem from, and failed to ever put them back in their appropriate shelves? I'm not sure.
Right now there's a Margaret Atwood Selected Poems copy and, if I recall correctly, a copy of my boyfriend's graphic novel. And maybe something else? What does it mean that I can't remember, that I haven't touched the books on my nightstand in months?
Here is what I'd like to put on my nightstand, as a way of defining myself, my life, my mood right now:
- The Hunger Games (I saw an advance screening last night -- Gary Ross even came! -- and wowza.)
- William Blake's collected poems (For some reason, spring = poetry to me.)
- The Baby-sitters Club Super Special #2: Baby-sitters' Summer Vacation (I know I joke about the BSC a lot, but I'm actually not kidding. I always want to be reading them, particularly this one. It is a permanent nightstand book for me. In fact, when I'm home next, I'm going to take it OUT of my special "favorite books" bookshelf, the pretty one on display in my living room, and put it on my nightstand. Just to make me feel good. Love you, Ann M Martin!)
- The Age of Innocence (Goodness, I'm a broken freakin' record sometime. But I re-read this every summer, and I'm working on a writing project related to this, and it's just my jam. And it's so pretty! And adult!)
I've never lived anywhere, ever, that had a proper guest room. But when I do, I'm going to take the Hairpin's advice and leave my copy of Donna Tartt on the nightstand.
Um, except my copy is electronic. Damn.