I'm a huge fan of books. I love reading them. I like the way they feel. I like rearranging them on the shelf. I can buy books like nobody's business. So I went shopping today to buy a book for my wife.
It didn't work. I stood there frozen, uncertain. What if the protagonist is shallow or immoral? What if the sorrow isn't redemptive? What if the author is a closet Marxist?
Oh bother. So I went and bought her a box of noodles. I know she likes them.
(This story is loosely based on a true story.)
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