A Confession

My Dear Professor J, 

I am NOT ready to put this thread "to bed" just because I brought up the Oscar Wilde letters, and you are more than welcome to join me in my "One More Thing throne room." I am now imagining said throne and ornate room where I can continuously bore people with just the extra odd bit of information. Complicated locks and trap doors may be in order! LOL

 I am a dreadful book snooper. There. I've confessed. It is very revealing and not just because I think I may get stuck there and have nothing to read. The presence of large amounts of books points at the very least to the curiosity of the resident. A mass of a particular genre hints at interests. But in the home of a real book lover where much is read, I always think "Of all they've read, these are the books they chose to keep." The volumes taking up precious space in the home of a voracious reader are particularly telling. Treasures that simply cannot be parted with. Paper and ink windows to the soul.

A second reading provided a few insights into just how cleverly the book is written. Sydney cutting the letter short to dress for dinner not only was a sign of the times when people of a certain element of society dressed for dinner, but I thought it was also among the first clues to his sexual orientation. Straight men rarely talk of "dressing" for anything. And of course as you point out the letter writing is something lost to us along with the idea of any kind of communal dinner at the end of every day. The evening's reconnection has been lost to over-scheduling and for families to work, sports, and other activities that cause the evening meal to be eaten in sort of an uncivilized "wave" as family members make pit stops to refuel. Ah, but this is a mother complaining about a losing battle she fought for years.

I am so glad to hear you gush over this book. Like you, I found myself not wanting to finish it. The stories in many cases read as the real recollections of someone. Margaret Mitchell's details to a large extent in Gone With the Wind were from stories that she had heard first hand at family gatherings when she was growing up. I couldn't help thinking that much of the feeling of authenticity of our Guernsey friends was due to the same thing, though in the interviews I read they spoke often of extensive research. 

"I wonder how the book got to Guernsey? Perhaps there is some secret sort of homing instinct in books that brings them to their perfect readers." Is a literary conspiracy afoot? I'd like to think so. How lovely to think that the universe is twirling events, meetings, discoveries in such a way as to bring the perfect books and people to us and taking us to the places where we can find them. Think of all that never would have happened if that book hadn't shown up! 

Authors of books set something loose in the world, the results of which they can never know. A kind of immortal influence that persists after they are gone and permeates whatever place their work can be taken. In the case of the Literary Society the result is the holding together of individuals and community by those kind enough (or driven) to leave their thoughts (in words) for others.

Of all the wonderful qualities about this book I think my favorite was the all around tenderness with which the story is told. Something about it wears like a comfortable pair of slippers and is comforting like reuniting with an old friend. I couldn't quite put my finger on it, but I think that you are right in that it is the lovely community of love and acceptance that draws you in. So much understanding exhibited even toward the young German soldiers (the enemy) far from home, or demonstrated by Henry in his story about the prostitutes and their tragic circumstances and deaths and how he reacted to his mother and aunt's comments about it.

I was amused by Juliet's perspective of the relationship with Dawsey. Every woman can relate. In one letter she is sure he's going to kiss her, a couple later she writes "Please ignore everything I have ever said about Dawsey Adams. I am an idiot." She goes on to explain that she doesn't think he's interested at all in her and she feels humiliated. 

I loved some of the entertaining side items:

"Kit would love a bagpipe. I would not."

"Remy, for all she's so frail and thin, manages to look stylish at every turn. What is it about French women?"

"...all the shelves are lined with shells, bird feathers, dried sea grasses, pebbles, egg shells, and the skeleton of something that might be a bat. They're just bits that were lying on the ground, that anyone else would have stepped over or on, but she saw something beautiful in them and brought them home."

I found Dawsey's willingness to don a dishtowel and march around with Kit and Juliet particularly endearing.

Please feel free to drift back into your windbaggery. I'm sure our readers have missed it, as have I! :)