INside Story by Michael Harold
IN SIXTH GRADE, I discovered an unquenchable thirst for reading books. Prior to that, I equated reading with stuff like Hardy Boys mysteries, juvenile short stories and Highlight magazines— it was, for me, dull and overrated. And, if the truth be told, nothing compared to the mindless pleasures of after-school TV and characters like Marsha Brady, the Howells and Sergeant Carter. During the summer of 1976, however, I stole a copy of The Exorcist from my parents’ library and was forever changed. It was then that I realized
16-year-old stays up all night page-turning Beowulf or The Canterbury Tales? Not I, and certainly not when there was The Shining to scare the living daylights out of me or Mommie Dearest to convince me that I had the best mother in the world. Mine certainly did not put a plate of raw meat in front of me every morning or misuse coat hangers. In my 30s, I joined a reading club. I honestly wasn’t sure how long it would last or rather, how long I would last, but sure enough, the club is still alive and kicking. We discuss one book a month
the power of books. I had to hide the paperback from my parents because they would never have allowed me to read it—and with reason. The book was absolutely terrifying. Every night I had to stop myself from dragging my sleeping bag to the foot of my parents’ bed to keep Satan away. Rather than confess to reading it and having the book taken away, I manned up and slept alone with the lights on. Once I realized books contained stories that were gossipy, erotic, chilling and disturbing, I was hooked. I raided my parents’ rooms and took all kinds of books. I swiped a copy of Sidney Sheldon’s The Other Side of Midnight and educated myself on racy subjects I never knew existed. I shed tears reading Brian’s Song and feared the ocean like everyone else after reading Jaws. I thought high
and alternate between classics and contemporary fiction. It’s been great fun, but admittedly, of the 250 or more book discussions in which I’ve taken part, some of the most noteworthy have been the ones attended by the authors themselves. Christina Vella attended our book club once and conversed about the life of Baroness Pontalba, and John Biguenet discussed his experience with Louisiana swamp life. The problem with inviting a guest writer is how to critique a book when he or she is sitting across the table. We once welcomed an author who had published a memoir describing her life in Provence with a French businessman. Some of our preservation-loving members chose not to attend for fear they’d say something to the writer over a scene in which she saws a 17th century family
school would be different, but frankly, what 15- or
table in half because she didn’t like the shape of it.
The Book Club
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Inside New Orleans