There are two types of people―list-makers and the rest of the world. This is the season for the former: cooking lists, gift lists, shopping lists, who’s been naughty and who’s been nice lists, and soon lists of those things that we will resolve to either stop or start, at least for awhile.
Years ago, I wrote down all of the books I had read that year. I tucked it into holiday cards, noting the ones that I thought that person would enjoy. A list tradition was born.
I compile the annual readings as the holiday’s approach. My list invariably includes a range from lofty to low-brow. (I only omit those that I didn’t finish, so just because a book makes it onto the list, it doesn’t mean that it’s a recommendation.) I then match books to individuals with hand-written hieroglyphics that signal: “Here lies the treasure.”
I have thought about stopping the tradition when the creation seems to outweigh the available time, or when I have questioned its utility. I have omitted the list from the holiday card of a particular friend or two on occasion when I suspected they might regard it like a musty fruitcake, only I was later quizzed, “What happened to the book list? I didn’t get it this time.” So, for the most part, I now foist the list upon readers and non-readers alike, and let them sort (or toss) it out.
My compilation is no-frills―just titles and authors. Last year, a new friend, and fellow bibliophile, shared her meticulously organized list with me―with its date read, topic, numerical ratings, comments―and best of all, another tab for her future “want to read” books. I had list envy.
Despite their simplicity, my lists serve as a touchstone among friends and also as a sort of virtual journal, a literary walk down memory lane. I can recall the events of that year, where I was when I read a particular book, key life happening at that time. There are books that I had forgotten reading, yet seeing the list, I recall how I reacted to that story.
In 1992, I was seated on an airplane when I started “To Dance with the White Dog,” a book that I had bought while out of town. As I read an early scene, tears suddenly poured down my cheeks, much to my embarrassment. (If you’ve ever been emotionally caught off-guard while reading in public, you’ll empathize with my dilemma.) The story was later made into a made-for-television movie starring Hume Cronyn and Jessica Tandy. I have not seen the film, but recommend the book as a sweet and gentle story.
I love reading a book when it corresponds with travel to a place I am visiting. “Eleanor of Aquitaine,” examines the life of one of history’s most politically powerful women, who was first queen of France then of England. Written by Marion Meade, this biography enlightened my 1993 visit to the lovely Loire Valley and to the Fontevraud Abbey, where Eleanor spent her final years and is now entombed, alongside her husband Henry II and son, Richard the Lionhearted.
Then there are the books that made me laugh. “The Bear Went Over the Mountain” offers witty writing, in a cleverly silly and satirical way. I discovered this gem in 1997. It goes something like this: a bear steals an unpublished book and then sets off with the crafty ambition to pass as its human author. If you’ve ever done business with pompous sorts who take their day jobs, and themselves, too seriously, you may guffaw out loud as I did, at the bear, and the humans, in this story.
Sometimes, I offer my reading list suggestions with a certain amount of trepidation, since vouching for a book is a bit like orchestrating a blind date among friends. I’m sure I often get it wrong. Then someone will share with me that I got it right―they loved a book that I recommended for them. In those times, the gift goes both ways.
“Listful” is not yet a proper word, but perhaps, in time, it will be. I view it as the fullness derived from writing lists or perhaps that combination of blissfulness and lists. It shows up in word searches as “lustful.” All ample reasons for a book-loving list-maker to embrace a new word.
May all your holidays be listful and bright.