You can be replaced

In the coming weeks I plan to get a new crown on one of my teeth and to have cataract surgery on both eyes. In other words, I will be replacing some of my original equipment with artificial replacement parts.

And this is the subject of Mary Roach's entertaining new book Replaceable You: Adventures in Human Anatomy (2025). As usual in her books, she makes science fun. You may not think there is anything amusing about hip replacements, artificial hearts, breast implants, mechanical joints and the like, but Roach can bring a smile while writing about just about anything.

When she is visiting a place where bodies are carved up to retrieve donated organs,  she comments about the music played in the building — Wanted Dead or Alive, Another One Bites the Dust and Only the Good Die Young, among other songs on the morgue playlist.

She writes about women who change breast implants as often as they change boyfriends. She tells of gene-edited pigs so that individuals who may eventually need new organs can have their "personal pig" when the time comes. She writes, "Hip replacement has the visual drama of a visit to a Chevron station."

Even her footnotes are worth reading. In one she reveals how she lost her virginity. That's not something one expects to find in a science book.

Roach doesn't appear to be squeamish about anything, allowing her to view and then describe things most of us might wish to avoid. And her humor makes all this easier for the reader to handle.

Individual thought

We seem to live in a world now where all thoughts are focused on the idea of prevailing, of imposing one's beliefs on others, and no thoughts, no thoughts are given to the costs of prevailing, or even what it means. Have the people never read Moby Dick? Well, no, they haven't.

Jane Smiley, 13 Ways of Looking at the Novel

Jane Smiley's book was published in 2005, yet her words above could have been written today. As she observes, people think they are right, whatever they happen to believe. Those who think differently obviously have it all wrong. This is the way it is not just in politics but in virtually everything else. What's wrong with you if you don't like my kind of music? How can you believe that? How could anyone stand to eat that? Or in that restaurant? What does she see in him?

Jane Smiley loves literature, so perhaps she is guilty of the very thing she criticizes. She thinks other people should love literature, too.

Yet she does have a point. Reading novels is, at least to some extent, an antidote for self-centered thinking.  That's because every character thinks differently from every other character, meaning that the reader is thrown into the minds of a variety of very different people with conflicting ideas, tastes and agendas. Fiction forces one to, in effect, wear the moccasins of others.

One need not even read Moby Dick or anything else that sophisticated. Winnie-the-Pooh makes the same point. Each character thinks in a different way than everyone else. Owl may be Pooh's friend, but that doesn't mean he has to be as obsessed with honey as Pooh is. Tigger likes bouncing, but he doesn't expect anyone else to bounce. And yet they all get along and together, using their very different minds and opinions, manage to solve problems and have a good time together. Imagine what it would be like, as Smiley warns, if they all thought the same way about everything.

Tea for me

Normally I avoid those "BeforeYou Die" books. You know, books to read, movies to watch, places to go, etc., before you die. I plan to make my own decisions about what I want to to do in the years I have left, thank you very much.

Yet I could not resist 101 Teas to Steep Before You Die (2025), just as I cannot resist a good cup of tea. I hoped the book would reveal some teas I might want to experience. I was not disappointed.

The book is the work of Nigel Melican, James Norwood Pratt, Maria Uspenski and Shabnam Weber, tea experts who provide commentary on each of the 101 selected teas.

While the title may suggest that these are the 101 best teas in the world, this is not the case at all. Sometimes the experts admit that they don't even like them. Rather they select noteworthy teas in various categories, including teas you can buy in any grocery store, such as Constant Comment and English Breakfast.

Other categories include healthful teas, teas that changed history and teas that were discovered more or less by accident. Not until chapter 9, "Desert Island Teas," do we get to the teas the four authors really love. Here we find teas like Gyokuro, Clouds and Mist and Big Red Robe, teas I had never heard of but would love to try.

We normally think of tea as coming mostly from China, India and Japan, but this book shows us that fine tea can come from unexpected places, including parts of Africa, New Zealand and even Mississippi.

They treat tea as wine snobs treat wine, talking about aromas, hints of chocolate and fruits or whatever, and even the food that goes best with certain tea.

If you love tea as I do, you will love this book. Otherwise, move on and enjoy your coffee.

To read is to wander

To read is to wander in a direction, to yield to a current.

Heather Cass White, Books Promicuously Read

Heather Cass White

To read a book for the first tune is a kind of wandering, as Heather Cass White suggests in Books Promiscuously Read. That is, we don't know where a book is taking us. We wander to discover what's around the next corner or over the next hill. We read to discover what the author has for us next.

Sometimes, as when we read a thriller or a mystery, surprise is the whole point. But even in more serious novels and most nonfiction, there is a sense of wandering and discovery. We read books in hope that they will be, at the very least, interesting. There will be something we have never encountered before.

We can often be disappointed, of course. Often there is nothing interesting at all around the next curve in the road or over the next hill. Similarly the next chapter of a book can be a letdown. Wandering involves risk, which is why so many of us prefer to read books by authors we have come to know and love.

White's next metaphor, "to yield to a current," is slightly different. Wandering suggests free will, making choices. You can always turn around or take another path. Floating down a stream, however, implies, as her phrase tells us, "yielding." Which is most apt when it comes to reading? Are we wandering or yielding?

Any metaphor can be taken too far, and perhaps it doesn't really matter. In any case, I like the idea of reading as a kind of discovery. As Forrest Gump says about chocolates, you never know what you are going to get.

Keyboard magic

"My imagination doen't really work unless a typewriter is sitting directly in front of me," novelist Larry McMurtry once said. "I am all but incapable of conceiving stories abstractly."

One of Larry McMurtry's Hermes typewriters

I found this quote in Tracy Daugherty's fine biography of McMurtry, and I have no idea when he said, whether it was before or after the computer age. But it doesn't really matter. Even after other writers had switched to writing on computers, McMurtry continued using the same kind of typewriter he had used since early in his writing career. When he was sitting there with his fingers on the keyboard, he was in his comfort zone. That is when his imagination fired up and the stories and characters came out.

Although I switched effortlessly from typewriters to computer keyboards, I identify with McMurtry. I have written previously about how, in my early teens, I had no interest in writing and no clue that I had any writing ability at all until my parents brought home a portable Smith-Corona typewriter. I seemed to turn into a writer overnight.

Even now I usually have no idea what I am going to write about when I sit down at my computer to write a blog post. Yet when my fingers are on the keyboard, ideas begin to form. Words come from somewhere and flow through my fingers and those keys and onto my computer screen. Give me a pen and paper and I am incapable of writing anything noteworthy, as I learned when I had to write all those in-class college essays on test days.

Our minds operate in strange ways. Some writers can only write when they are standing up, like Hemingway, or sitting in bed. Whatever works.

Reason to live

Larry McMurtry

In Tracy Daugherty's biography of  novelist Larry McMurtry, who seemed to write books so that he could afford to buy books, he quotes something McMurtry's older sister, Judy McLemore, said about him. "He told me once he wasn't afraid to die; he was just afraid that he wouldn't get all the books read that he needed to get read. I told him, 'Larry, you have been reading since you were four. Surely you have most of them read.' He replied, 'No, I'm not even close.'"

They say that old people often stay alive longer if they are waiting for certain milestones — to reach a 90th birthday, to see a grandchild graduate from college, whatever. Reading all the books one wants to read before dying may be an impossible goal. Even so, it makes sense to me.

I would gladly settle just for all the unread books in my condo, which might keep me going strong for several more decades.

If one needs an incentive to keep breathing, books seem to me to work as well as birthdays and graduations.

Murderbot in love?

The hard reality was that I didn't know what Mensah was to me.

Martha Wells, Exit Strategy

The Murderbot Diaries by Martha Wells may be, on the surface, adventure novels, shoot-'em-ups in space. Yet what makes them so compelling is that the Murderbot in question is mostly a robot, yet partly a human being. He (or is it it?)  can even pass as human, even though he doesn't need to eat or sleep. He calls himself a Murderbot because he was designed to protect people, usually by killing other people.

By deactivating his governor early in the series, he became a free agent. He follows no orders and can spend all his time watching the videos he has downloaded into himself, which is what he says he wants to do. Yet he  confesses in Exit Strategy (2018), the fourth book in the series, that watching all that media has made him "feel like a person."

What's more, he may actually be in love with Dr. Mensah, his former owner. Now on his own, he sets out to rescue Dr. Mensah from an evil corporation holding her for ransom.

Wells throws in enough imagined scientific jargon of the far future to satisfy any geek, but the Murderbot's shred of humanity is always what drives these novels. This one may not be one of the best in the series, but it is still impossible not to love Murderbot at least as much as he may, or may not, love Dr. Mensah.

How to speak sheep

This strikes me as rather sad — that we can only understand parrots if they're speaking our language about things we've decided are important to us.

Amelia Thomas, What Sheep Think About the Weather

For generations scientists have been trying to teach various kinds of animals to communicate using human speech. But if these scientists are so smart — smarter, one assumes, than those animals — then why not learn to communicate with them using their own forms of communication?

Amelia Thomas is no scientist but just an intelligent woman who loves all animals. In What Sheep Think About the Weather (2025), she tells about her efforts to understand what these animals may be trying to say.

Her amateur studies take her to interview many actual scientists and to examine the communication tools used by whales, dogs, birds, monkeys, horses and many other animals, including sheep. Her book reaches its climax when her beloved but weakening horse, Major, puts his forehead against her own, telling her in his own way that he is ready to die.

Because each of the many species of animals communicates in its own way, and most of them have no interest at all in communicating with humans, it will be a great challenge for Amelia Thomas or anyone else to ever turn into Doctor Doolittle. But Thomas does show us that the true challenge is not teaching chimpanzees or any other species to speak English but rather learning how these animals are speaking to each other, and sometimes to us, in their own way.

Nothing new

I have a view about great art, whether it's stories, music, whatever. None of it tells you anything new; it merely reminds you of something you already knew but forgot you knew. And that's what Larry did, You start reading Lonesome Dove and you feel you already know these people. They're already in you. They've always been in you.

Bill Wittliff writing about Lonesome Dove by Larry McMurtry

Larry McMurtry himself disagreed with what Bill Wittliff says above, although his biggest beef seems to have been with Wittliff suggesting that Lonesome Dove is "great art." McMurtry did compare his novel with Gone with the Wind, but then he pointed out that Gone with the Wind is not a great novel either.

But I don't think art has to be great for what Wittliff says to be true. It merely has to be good art.

Art need not tell us anything new. Science does that. Art reminds us of what we know. But it does so indirectly, obliquely even. It may reflect reality, but that reality may be different for different people. Art allows for interpretation. It allows for different opinions. Art so often takes the form of a puzzle.

I was a newspaper book reviewer when Lonesome Dove was published in 1985. I received an advance review copy, and I can recall reading it while on a family vacation that took us to Arkansas, Memphis and Mammoth Cave. If I were asked what book I most enjoyed reading and reviewing, I would say this one. I knew nothing about cowboys and cattle drives other than what I had seen in movies and TV westerns, yet this story moved me as few others have. The characters seemed real to me, as if, as Wittliff suggests, they were already in me.

Behind a masterpiece

I watched Alfred Hitchcock's Rear Window again the other night, while I was in the middle of Jennifer O'Callaghan's Rear Window: The Making of a Hitchcock Masterpiece in the Hollywood Golden Age (2025). I must agree. It is a masterpiece.

This 1954 classic entertains audiences even as it convicts them. Jimmy Stewart plays a world-traveling photographer confined by a broken leg to his own apartment. To entertain himself he watches neighbors in a building across the way, sometimes using binoculars. He imagines stories about them. What some may call people watching, others might call voyeurism. Might we under the same circumstances do much the same thing?

Jefferies, the Stewart character, comes to believes a man across from him has murdered his nagging wife. His girlfriend who wants to marry him, played by Grace Kelly; the woman who comes by to give him a daily massage, played by Thelma Ritter; and a police friend, played by Wendell Corey, all think he is letting his imagination get the better of him. But then they become believers, too.

O'Callaghan tells us in detail how this great movie was made, how the elaborate set was built and why it worked so well and how Hitchcock tricked censors into letting him get away with more than they may have imagined.

Yet only about half the book is actually about the making of the film. The rest tells us much about the careers of Stewart and Kelly, especially Kelly, whom O'Callaghan follows from Hollywood to Monaco. She even has a lot to say about Tom Hanks, the modern actor most like Stewart in his common-man appeal. Kelly, however, she regards as one of a kind.

Along the way, she tells readers some fascinating trivia. Who was the highest paid actor in Rear Window? Would you believe Thelma Ritter? And did you know that Ross Bagdasarian, who plays the composer in one of the windows, later became better known as David Seville, the man behind the Chipmunks?

If you enjoy Rear Window — and who doesn't ? — you will have fun with O'Callaghan's lively book.

A nun in Iceland

Icelandic author Olaf Olafsson makes reading his novels a challenge, as in Touch, a book that wowed me a couple of years ago. In The Sacrament (2019), an earlier novel, there is more of the same. Time jumps around, so the reader is never sure what is happening now and what happened way back when. Quotation marks are used sparingly. Much of the narrative is obscure.

Yet Olafsson proves worth the trouble.

Sister Johanna Marie, a French nun, is sent back to Iceland for a second time, two decades after her first visit, to conduct another investigation. Her main qualification as an investigator seems to be that she learned the Icelandic languages from her Icelandic roommate, Halla, when she was in college.

Because Catholic priests and nuns are not allowed to marry, the priesthood sometimes draws homosexual men, partly the reason for the problem the church has had with priests and choir boys. And this is why Johanna is sent as an investigator to Iceland. But does a nun's life also attract lesbians? This is true in Johanna's case, and each time she visits Iceland she has Halla on her mind.

Will she and Halla reunite? That is but one of the novel's mysteries. Also, will misbehaving priests ever face justice? Why did a priest fall to his death from a bell tower during Johanna's first trip to Iceland? And what happened to the boy she rescued from a locked closet?

Olafsson's novels may be puzzles, but they are a joy to solve.

Why not rabbits?

In Version Control, Dexter Palmer wrote one of the most original time-travel novels you are likely to find. In Mary Toft: or, The Rabbit Queen (2019), his creative mind takes off in a very different direction.

Now it is 1726 in a small English village, where a woman seems to be giving birth to dead rabbits. The novel is based on a true story.

Zachary is a village boy who becomes an apprentice to John Howard, the village physician, after he shows interest in a traveling show of human oddities. If this boy has the stomach for this sort of thing, he must have what it takes to be a good doctor, Howard reasons. Mostly the story comes from Zachery's point of view.

But then comes the case of Mary Toft, who gives birth to dead, dissected rabbits every two or three days. At that time it was believed that women who give birth to odd, misshapen children — such as the two-headed woman who shows up late in the novel — must have had something traumatic happen to them during their pregnancy. So why not rabbits?

Soon this oddity attracts surgeons from London, each claiming to represent the king. They take turns delivering dead rabbits and finally take Mary to London to impress the king and others in the big city. Of course, Mary stops giving birth to rabbits once she is in London.

Although this story has comic potential, Palmer mostly plays it straight. He deftly explores the odd human desire to believe the impossible. Whenever we see a magic act, we want to believe the magic tricks are not tricks at all. So again, why not rabbits?

Minor writers

Larry McMurtry

Larry McMurtry, best known for Lonesome Dove, took satisfaction in being regarded as a "minor writer." Relatively few writers ever achieve that distinction, he noted.

Most writers make no splash at all. Minor writers are important in their own generation and perhaps for a few years afterward. Then they disappear. A very few major writers — like Dickens, Austen and Tolstoy — continue to be read a hundred years later and more.

McMurtry placed such respected 20th century writers as Norman Mailer, Philip Roth and Saul Bellow in the "minor" category. He didn't mention John Updike, but it is hard to imagine Updike still being read in the next century. Relatively few people read him now.

The only one of his contemporaries he mentioned as a major writer was Flannery O'Connor. "I think she was a true genius, painful genius," he said.

McMurtry also said, "It's fine if you're minor. I 'm glad I got that high. Not everybody does."

His comments reflect both humility and reality. True greatness in any field is rare, and should be. We think of the word minor as being insignificant or average, if not below average. And if we are thinking only of our own time, such descriptions may be true. McMurtry, however, was a bibliophile perhaps even more than he was a writer. He read great books from many centuries and many writers. He looked at literature on a big screen. In the big picture, the Mailers and the Roths and the Bellows, not to mention the McMurtrys, are truly minor. Even so, they made it to the screen.

McMurtry's life

Writers can come from anywhere, as is proven once again in Tracy Daugherty's fine 2023 biography Larry McMurtry: A Life.

McMurtry was born into a struggling Texas ranch family. Bookish even in a home without books, he was certainly not made to be a cowboy. Yet his experiences growing up in that environment allowed him to create an impressive library of western fiction, both contemporary such as The Last Picture Show and Terms of Endearment and of the Old West variety, such as Lonesome Dove.

Like his novels, where his characters always seem to be going somewhere, McMurtry lived his life mostly on the road. Archer City, Texas, may have been his home base, where he eventually brought thousands of books in hopes he could turn this nothing town into a literary haven, but mostly he traveled. He owned a bookstore in Washington, D.C. He  went often to Hollywood, where he wrote screenplays (like Brokeback Mountain) and built friendships with the likes of actresses Diane Keaton and Cybill Shepherd. He became pals with author Ken Kesey in California and the Pacific Northwest and eventually married Kesey's widow. He spent a lot of time in Tucson.

McMurtry may not have looked like a ladies' man, but like a sailor he seemed to have a girl in every port. His relationships with women, from Susan Sontag to Diana Ossana, were extremely close, even when they were not sexual. As Daugherty puts it, "He gathered women as he gathered books, and for much the same reason: so as not to feel bereft." And so many of his best characters were women, many of them based on the women in his life.

Daugherty says that "loss was the major theme of his writing." The loss of the Old West, his father's and grandfather's generations, was certainly dominant in his work. But there are other kinds of loss, as well. So many of his main characters die in his books, reminding readers that life is fleeting. 

And now we have lost Larry McMurtry. Yet, at least for the time being, we still have his books.

Carried away by metaphors

We are moved by metaphors, carried away, transported by them. In its simplest form, metaphor sets side by side two things that are different and purposes to the mind that they are alike. Metaphor does not change things, it asks us to consider them in the light they shine on one another. Everything looks different  depending on the light in which we see it. The right metaphor educates and delights our sense of seeing."

Heather Cass White, Books Promiscuously Read

Metaphors have been on my mind lately. I am leading a series of discussions on the 23rd Psalm. The psalms are poetry, and poetry depends heavily on metaphors. "The Lord is my shepherd," like virtually every phrase in the psalm, is a metaphor. It "sets side by side two things that are different" — God and a shepherd — "and purposes to the mind that they are alike."

Heather Cass White

The metaphors in the psalm ask us "to consider them in the light they shine on one another." Metaphors can mean different things to different people, or even to the same person at different times. That's because, as Heather Cass White puts it, "Everything looks different depending on the light in which we see it."

Thus, I think our discussions on the 23rd Psalm could be very interesting.

But if poetry depends heavily on metaphors, the same is true of fiction. Moby-Dick is a great novel, in part, because the huge whale is a great metaphor. Adventures of Huckleberry Finn is a great novel, in part, because the raft and the river are great metaphors. The effective use of metaphors is essential to good writing.

But then metaphors are also essential to communication in general. The Big Bang metaphor makes it easier to explain the universe. Two apples plus two apples makes it easier to explain basic arithmetic.

As White puts it, "The right metaphor educates and delights our sense of seeing."

Message in a bottle

To write, publish, or distribute a book is like putting a message in a bottle and tossing it into the sea: its destination is uncertain.

Gabriel Zaid, So Many Books

Gabriel Zaid, above, is clearly not talking about the likes of James Patterson, Laura Lippman, Michael Connelly or any other author of popular books, although what he says may very well been true of these authors early in their careers.

For writers starting out, it can be a great challenge getting an agent, then finding a publisher and then, perhaps most challenging of all, attracting readers. The message in a bottle metaphor is actually spot on in most cases.

Writing a book takes hours upon hours of work. For writers who cannot yet get an advance from a publisher, this is unpaid labor. The labor includes research, especially in the case of nonfiction books, and countless hours spent writing and editing — usually spare time, because these writers often have full-time jobs or families to take care of. They must struggle with plots, sentences, grammar, clarity and, in some cases, trying to create art. All this must be done without ever knowing if anyone will actually pay money to read all those words.

The book publishing industry exists and succeeds because there are so many people in the world with something they want to say who are willing to take this great chance — to, in effect, put their message in a bottle with the hope that someone someday will actually find it and read it.

Relatively few of the books written are actually published, and few of those published actually sell a significant number of copies. 

Zaid concludes his thought on an optimistic note: "And yet again and again the miracle occurs: a book finds its reader, a reader finds his book."

How to apologize

Gary Chapman's five love languages have, over the years, become an essential tool for helping people understand how they both express and experience love. In 2022, with the help of Jennifer Thomas, he produced the book 5 Apology Languages, which does the same kind of thing with apology.

Just as we do not all think of love in the same way, so we do not all think of apology in the same way. Thus, what one person thinks of as an apology may seem totally insufficient to the person receiving the apology. The five languages are expressing regret, accepting responsibility, making restitution, planned change and requesting forgiveness.

The authors give us many case studies involving individuals who either cannot bring themselves to make an apology or, if they do, fail to do it in a way that is meaningful to the offended person. Simply saying you are sorry won't work for someone who expects change or restitution.

The authors touch on, but to my mind do not give enough attention to, the fact that in many, if not most, conflicts, both people share some guilt. One thing leads to another in so many disagreements, each causing escalation. Yet often it is just one person who is expected to make an apology.

Chapman and Thomas add helpful material to the end of their book. What should we avoid saying when we are trying to apologize? What things should we say? How can we determine what our own apology language might be?

Their book can be useful for anyone involved in a personal relationship — in other words, all of us. 

Too many books

For most of my life, the phrase "too many books" was a foreign concept to me. You can never have too many books. Any book worth reading was worth keeping, I thought. And that's what I did.

My personal library began growing when I joined the Doubleday Science Fiction Book Club as a teenager. Almost every month I got one or two cheap hardbacks by people like Isaac Asimov and Clifford D. Simak. In college I took lots of literature classes, each requiring the purchase of several books. In addition, I loved spending any extra money I had at college bookstores.

Near the start of my newspaper career I began reviewing books, which meant publishers sending me books by the armload. In my mid-thirties, my wife and I purchased a spacious new home that seemed to have an endless amount of room for an endless number of books.

But then I got old and the time came for downsizing. I like having lots of books around, but my son does not feel the same way. And then we bought a condo and, eventually, I sold my big house. "Too many books" became a reality, one I am still trying to deal with.

I sold about half my library at auction. Most of the rest are in storage. Yet old habits die hard, if they die at all, and I continue to acquire books. I no longer, however, feel compelled to keep every book I read. Even so, I am practically buried in books.

And then I became condo librarian. Residents regularly donate books, which is good, but since the shelves are already filled, I must take one book off the shelves each time another is donated. Here too there are too many books.

I was fascinated by the very first page of Donna Leon's 2023 mystery So Shall You Reap. Guido Brunetti, Leon's hero, has but four bookshelves in his own home — his wife, a professor, claims the rest — and they are full. It is time for what he terms The Cull.

"The first shelf held books he knew he would read again; the second, at eye level, held books he wanted to read for the first time; the third, books he'd not finished but believed he would; and the bottom shelf held books he had known, sometimes even as he was buying them, that he would never read."

I have many more books than Brunetti has, and my shelves are not nearly as well organized, and yet my approach to culling is essentially the same as his. He begins at the bottom, with those books he knows he will never read. And that is where I must also begin.

Books that flatter us

Always be cautious with books about books! The risk is flattery,

Robin Sloan, introduction to So Many Books by Gabriel Zaid

Robin Sloan

Books about books are always popular with those who love books. Why? Because they flatter us, Robin Sloan says. They compel us to buy them. We like to read about ourselves, and books about books are, in some way, about us.

I have never in my long life seen so many novels with book-related themes. There are novels about librarians who become heroic spies during World War II. There are novels about romances set in bookstores and libraries. There are novels about writers, about book clubs and about lost books.

Among the unread novels on my own shelves are The Fiction Writer by Jillian Cantor, The Librianist by Patrick deWitt and The Dictionary of Lost Words by Pip Williams. Bookstores are currently filled with tempting titles that I have, so far, been able to resist.

As for nonfiction, there are almost as many books about books. So Many Books by Gabriel Zaid was published in Spanish in 1996. It was translated into English in 2003. I own the 2025 edition. In other words, we readers still want to read it because it is about what we like read about — books and the people, like us, who read them.

Consider some of the books about books I have read and written about here: 13 Ways of Looking at the Novel by Jane Smiley, Books Promiscuously Read by Heather Cass White, In Praise of Good Bookstores by Jeff Deutsch, So Many Books So Little Time by Sara Nelson, Browsings by Michael Dirda, A Reader's Manifesto by B. R. Myers, Ruined by Reading by Lynn Sharon Schwartz, The Joy of Books by Eric Burns and Phantoms on the Bookshelves by Jacques Bonnel, among others.

So why, other than flattery, should we be cautious about books about books? It is too easy to be taken in by a title. This may especially be true of novels. Just because fiction is set in a bookstore or a library doesn't mean it will be something worth reading. This is true of genres of all kinds. Just because you like westerns (or romances or sci-fi or mysteries) does not mean that all westerns, etc. are worth reading. And it seems to me that books about books have become a genre all their own.

UFOs and donuts

Joe R. Lansdale turns out one entertaining novel after another, yet somehow flies under the radar of most readers. His The Donut Legion (2022) is another enjoyable experience.

As the title suggests, the novel is a bit off the wall. There's a ghost, flying saucers, a killer chimpanzee and, of course, lots of donuts.

Charlie Garner is visited one night by his beautiful ex-wife, Meg. Yet it soon becomes clear that she was never really there, although a hint of her perfume remains. When he goes looking for her, he discovers that both she and her new husband have disappeared. Did she somehow get mixed up in a nearby flying saucer cult, into which both people and large sums of money seem to be disappearing?

With assistance from his brother, Felix, a private investigator; Cherry, his brother's girlfriend and an attorney; and Scrappy, a pretty woman pretending to be a newspaper reporter who soon proves she deserves that nickname, Charlie begins digging into what's really going on inside that cult.

This proves to be dangerous business, even after they enlist the local chief of police in their campaign. As for the donuts, it seems the cult gets much of its money from a string of donut shops.

The novel proves to be fun, even as bodies keep piling up.