The funny thing is that you're very rarely enough of anything for anyone.
When I write about radical-lady-type-stuff, I'm always too feminist for some people, and not feminist enough for others.
When I get worked about something, I'm always too outspoken for some, and not outspoken enough for others.
When I wrote a post about Easter, I was, according to commenters, either too Christian or else too atheist.
A few commenters even wondered if I was a pantheist, the thought of which sent me scrambling to my bookcase, scanning the shelves until I finally found Ann-Marie McDonald's Fall On Your Knees.
I flipped to the end of the book, the section that's an excerpt of Kathleen's diary, and, after re-reading all of her love scenes with Rose, found the passage I was looking for:
O Diary. My loyal friend. There is love, there is music, there is no limit, there is work, there is the precious sense that this is the hour of grace when all things gather and distil to create the rest of my life. I don't believe in God, I believe in everything. And I am amazed at how blessed I am.
That's the kind of paragraph that makes me want to take a long drag on a cigarette, exhale the smoke oh-so-slowly, and mutter, Yes, yes, exactly, yes.
Fall On Your Knees was my favourite book when I was a teenager. I mean, Jesus, what's not to love about it? It's a huge, generation-spanning Canadian epic that takes place in early 20th century Cape Breton (NOVA SCOTIA REPRESENT) and jazz-age New York. The writing is teeth-achingly beautiful, not to mention clever, funny and smart as hell. The characters are brilliant, multi-faceted and all that other good stuff that actual literary-type people say in actual book reviews; in fact, I think that my first ever girl-crush was on Frances Piper.
When I was in university, I had the chance to go see Ann-Marie McDonald give a reading from her latest, The Way The Crow Flies. She was gorgeous and articulate and funny (naturally), and I was totally smitten. Afterwards, I got the chance to meet her and have her sign my copy of Fall On Your Knees. I felt like I was meeting a movie star; my palms were sweaty, my mouth was dry, my chest felt tight. I felt light-headed, and kept having to remind myself to breathe.
When I made it to the head of the line and she asked me my name, I somehow managed to squeak out that her book had really been important to me. I knew that it was going to sound stupid and trite before I even said it, but I didn't know what else I could say. Here was this person who had strung together the loveliest, smartest, best words possible to create an absolutely perfect story, one that I could disappear into any time that I needed a break from the real world. I wanted to tell her everything that I loved about her book, from why Frances was my favourite character all the way to how her brief mention of Nova Scotia's Africville had spawned an hour-long conversation with my grandmother about Halifax's racial landscape.
But how was I supposed to do that with the auditorium lights shining in my face as if I were being questioned for a crime I hadn't committed? How was I supposed to tell her all this with my clumsy tongue and my woefully inadequate vocabulary?
So I told her that it was important. And she smiled and thanked me and scrawled For Anne, From Ann-Marie McDonald inside the front cover of my book. Afraid that I might embarrass myself, I hurried away, stumbled down the steps, and, while walking home, thought up a million brilliantly witty remarks that I could have made to McDonald if only I'd had the wherewithal.
(Hint: I very rarely have any wherewithal whatsoever)
All of which is to say -- oh my dear sweet Jesus I love books so fucking much.
I love reading books, I love buying books, I love writing about books and I love talking about books.
So with that in mind, I asked you guys what your all-time favourite, desert-island books were.
Here's what you had to say: