I am not really going to compare Wilkie Collins’ The Moonstone (which I’ve read many times over years) with Marisa De Los Santos’ Love Walked In (which I read yesterday).  They are incomparable but for one salient and similar characteristic:  both books are romances.  The Moonstone is a romance wrapped in a mystery and shrouded in the heavy scent of Eastern mysticism and the wonderfully creepy chill of nineteenth century English superstition.  Love Walked In is a contemporary best seller, complete with trademark best seller hyperbole in every description, every emotion, every situation, and in the (utterly foregone) conclusion.  The Moonstone is a master of subtlety in description and plot, and beauty; Love Walked In bashes its reader over the head again and again with love and heartache.

So why I am pairing these two completely dissimilar books?  Because a good friend gave me Love Walked In to share with me, as a gift, this book that she loved; and The Moonstone was given to me by my sister to share with me because it was a book she loved.  People sharing books they love, trying to spread the goodness that they felt, or the excitement, pleasure, chills down the spine, or simple connection by reading such a book, is a good thing.  But it is also a tricky maneuver, for both sides.  The giver of the book is not exactly ripping open their soul for a free look but close to it; and the taker of the book, if at all a sensitive being, knows that the soul of the other has been ripped wide open and whatever you do, as the taker, you’d better not spit on someone else’s soul.  Now between sisters there is less to hide and less to lose: for one thing, a sister’s soul has been bared a few million times before, willingly or not (yes, I did read my sister’s diary: I was the bratty baby sister and I just loved to read anything) and for another, family is always there, come hell or high water or holidays.  For a friend to offer up a book, that is an open hand outstretched and taking the chance that it might not be taken, that it might be slapped down.  I admire that reach of the hand, I admire my friends who, knowing I am reading my way through so many wonderful and great books, and rhapsodizing though dinner parties about them all and monopolizing all conversations and being a pain (its like “I’m in love, I’m in love, I’m in love, I’m in love, I’m in love with a wonderful book”) and yet to still be willing to say to me, “hey, try this one.”  And so it has to be alright for me to say, “Thanks,” and then later, after I’ve read it, I should be able to sit down here and write, “I did not like it.” But I still like you, friend, and respect you.  For reading and for wanting to share your reading and for opening up that soul for that minute just for me.  Thank you.

For the record, The Moonstone is one of the best books ever written.  The characters are extravagantly portrayed but very real and we are quite moved by their individual plights of love mingled with fear as they all try to figure out who stole the moonstone and at the same time protect the ones they love from being accused, rightly or wrongly, of having stolen the cursed gem.  The emotions are complicated, as in real life, and the motivations of the characters are not clear cut but changing and varied, again as in real life.  The beauty of the novel is in how Collins instills long and genuine portrayals of what it is to be human (to feel unsure and afraid, then emboldened, then humbled, then relieved) into a thrilling book of mystery and suspense (we are joyfully frantic to know what is really going on).

Love is blind and that goes for love of books as well. “Ieder diertje zijn pleziertje”: that is Flemish for “to each their own” but  it sounds so much better in Flemish (it is really hard to say and I know, I’ve been trying to say it correctly for 45 years). What I would like to convey is that even the best of friends will recommend books I may not like, and I will recommend books here in these pages, that people out there in the world will not like; they might even think “Is she insane?  This book is terrible.”  (Although no one would ever, ever say that about The Moonstone). If you read enough of my reviews, you’ll start to understand what I value in a book and hopefully, those values will resonate.  I value originality in plot and characters; genuine characters with truth in their emotions and descriptions and situations; movement in characters (change — we learn so much through change), and beauty in the way the words are put together on the page.  “Genuine” and “truth” do not necessarily mean realistic.  If I am convinced by the writer of the verity of the people and situation presented, that book is good.  I believe that its goodness comes from the writer being convinced that his/her story is important and real, and their writing is a true photographic representation (or even better than a photo, with much more than two dimensions) of what goes on out there in the world, in the universe, and what should be shared with others for being important and honest and beautiful.  Or ugly.  But always true.  Not fiction at all, but truth.