DBC|READS

Or, reading a book about a man in his fifties taking an eleven-year-old girl (to whom he is not related) on a cross-country trip where he sees her naked, bathes her, holds her hand, looks longingly into her eyes, etc. while riding the train. (Review of LAMB will be up by week’s end; all I can say right now: disturbing.)

There are times when reading is not optimal. When the alternative—perhaps staring into space or finding a way to wage a thumb war by yourself—might be a more suitable use of your time. Reading Bonnie Nadzam’s LAMB today on the train got me thinking, “When have I read something and felt immediately uncomfortable, or maybe different, about my surroundings?”

Last year, riding the high of a senior-year-in-college bout of idealism, I decided to make my annual trek from the flat expanse of west-central Illinois to Boston by Amtrak. The twenty-nine-hour trip—which was delayed six hours—was supposed to be a time for reading and writing; the latter was no guarantee, but the former seemed fool-proof. I brought along THEN WE CAME TO THE END by Joshua Ferris, NINE STORIES by J.D. Salinger, THE SPORTSWRITER by Richard Ford, and REVOLUTIONARY ROAD by Richard Yates.

Starting with Yates, I figured, was the safest option. Though all of the books were heralded, I had read Salinger, wasn’t quite in the mood for Ferris’ collective first person-ing, and thought Ford’s brand of slow, steady prose would put me to sleep. So, Yates it was. Frank and April Wheeler were my traveling partners.

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