We’re late to the party. We’re very aware. We’ve got stacks of books we’ve been meaning to get to, and often reading those stacks results in the need to acquire subsequent stacks. Books are a vicious web of aesthetic agony in that regard, and the contemplation of any future wherein every book we’ve ever wanted to read has been read seems ridiculously optimistic at best.
Also, we’re a bit against the bandwagon. Tell us something is great, and we’ll tell you, “We’ll be the judge of that.” This is a bi-product of what we fear is an overly-fragile publishing industry. Quick, go and find us 10 negative book reviews. It’s a hard task. The scene is too small to throw stones. No one wants to offend.
So, when we heard about Michael Kimball’s Dear Everybody we put it on our list. We ordered it from a bookseller. It gazed sweetly upon our reading chair post-arrival. We knew we’d eventually pick it up. And we were damned pleased when we did.
