Growing up in a suburb of Washington DC, the Washington Post was an integral part of my childhood, especially the three pages of comics in the back of the Style section. As I got older, I appreciated how great it was, to have a daily serious newspaper and "the funnies" at once (this is partly why, despite living in NYC for almost 20 years, I have never warmed to the New York Times, which seemed self-consciously pompous by comparison). In the 1990s, I had moved to the city to work in publishing, but went back to DC often to visit my parents (and my childhood home, with its swimming pool). Having no car, I traveled by Amtrak. The four hour train ride back to New York was among the best parts of those weekends, because I would have with me a thick stack of Washington Post Book Worlds, which my father thoughtfully left in my bedroom each Sunday, in a growing pile, in anticipation of my next visit. There was something very cozy about those train rides, and the orgy-like pleasure of a huge number of book reviews to dip into at once. My favorite part of the Book World was easily Michael Dirda's column on the reading life. Discursive, personal, sometimes funny, sometimes wistful, but always filled with an infectious love of reading and books. Often very obscure ones -- reading his essays made me feel as though I was part of an exclusive club. Sometimes they were just a tiny shade too personal; every now and then in the later columns, I felt more aware than I wanted to be of hints of a mid-life crisis. He sometimes seemed to be fed up with parenting, marriage, and the grind of book reviewing (hard to be sympathetic there, how many book reviewers have won a Pulitzer for their work), teaching, for him, being the road not taken. Still, he was a very good companion on those rides. I sometimes even felt as though he were occupying the seat next to me (our conversations were very witty).
Today, my father, the house with my bedroom where the Book Worlds were stacked, and The Washington Post Book World itself, they are all gone, but somehow all still very real. The memories of the train rides and the bookish wallowing in newsprint have a vitality that is not quite matched by the actual physical presence of the hardback with the collected columns on my shelf.