I am not the target audience for this book. I'm sure of that. Normally, when a book is not for me, I'm able to pass it along or at least leave it at a laundromat or something for someone else to find and look through. And so when I found myself ripping out a page maybe fifty pages in I stopped and looked around for someone to come and take away my free speech badge, because I am not that kind of person (the kind who rips pages out of books. Or trashes them. Or burns them.)
What compelled me to grip the paper and pull violently? The portion on reading materials and reading habits. The author felt the need to tell me to not only be careful and monitor what I read, but to beware of even "Christian" books, because sometimes the devil is in them too. Words.
Words. Ideas. The devil can be in words. Ideas can be dangerous. And I agree and also want to pull out my hair and scream "NO! I don't agree with you in that way, author!", which is a conflicted stance to have. So:
I am not going to argue that point because I think I will lose. Words do have power. Ideas can be dangerous. That is why we read. That is why I read, because "safety's just danger out of place" (it's a little bitty sad that those quotes are lyrics from Harry Connick, but whatever). When books warn that you have to only read certain kinds of them, and that even those segregated few aren't safe, well then I think you are destined for the real danger, living constantly like Mr. Magoo, one unknowing step away from fallling into a pit with no bottom. That to me is the devil-- making rules where no one can encounter inflammatory ideas anywhere, turning them around, studying them, deciding what to do with them, refute or agree or a blend of the two. Mr. Magoos fear all the wrong things. As a viewer (please tell me someone else is as old as I am and knows what tv reruns are) you know that outside of the television Mr. Magoos don't last very long. He's not a bad guy, but he puts everyone around him on edge because he's so totally disconnected that every step is a matter of life or death because he knows no better- his glasses, where are they?
So what am I saying? I don't know, really. Only that when I was growing up safe and sheltered and caged, reading was my only freedom. Everything in my developing life was controlled or censored. My parents, for one reason or another, restricted my reading habits the least, perhaps because I was so musical, and watching Vivien Leigh with Victor Mature made me pull out the scarves and dance around the house saying "Samson, Samson, the PhilLISsteens are uhpohn you" but even then there were books that I hid, books that I read only at school. Some of those books, yeah, they were about incest and romance, they were V.C. Andrews and had peekaboo covers that when opened had no naughty picture bits, only warped family portraits. But some of the books I couldn't bring home were not really harmful. Some of them were perfectly fine but just not saintly enough for my parents. Books like Judy Blume. Judy Blume! Pippi Longstocking. Pippi. Longstocking. And so that is why I feel this way, and I'll admit freely that my background is what ruined this book for me. Ms. Brenneman (can I call you Ms.? Mrs?), I am not trying deliberately to offend you. I was given this book as a Christmas gift with an inscription written with love from someone who worked her very ass off to make me the semi-decent person that I am today and I do not want to belittle that sacrifice. But also, when I think of hers, I do (perhaps selfishly) think of mine, and of all the times I wandered around helplessly squinting in the face of unrealized disaster like Mr. Magoo.
When I was little I remember wanting to read awwlll the books in the whooooole wiiide worrrlddd" and thinking maybe, just maybe, I could do it. The library wasn't all that big at school and my parents had perhaps sixty books on our shelves at home. Back then, it seemed an honorable and achievable goal. Today, anytime I feel that strange optimism creep in (which is rare with my to-read mountain and goodreads), I will curb it with the reminder to my thirty-something self that this books exists. Because I am not ever going to read and finish this one, ever. Vaya con huevos, book. Don't worry, I won't rip you again. We part in peace.