Hardcover, 256 pages
Published June 13th 2017 by Henry Holt and Co.
Source: Raincoast Books
When I was ten years old, my mother handed me an empty notebook and told me to write down the titles of all the books I read. Twenty three years later, I have moved to tracking my reading on Goodreads but I have two or three notebooks filled with simply the titles of the books I read when I was younger.
Pamela Paul’s Bob, her Book of Books is a similar thing only she was much smarter than me and noted down not just the titles but the authors and perhaps what she felt about the books she read. Now as she looks at the titles she has recorded in her Bob and the notes accompanying it, she can construct for herself the time she spent reading this book, what she going through while reading this book, and what she got out of this book. For instance, she remembers her travels in Southeast Asia by remembering the books she read while there. Sometimes she constructed her entire experience of a place by the book she was reading at the time which is certainly problematic but at the same time, understandable.
Her memoir will appeal to all bibliophiles who are in constant search for their people. You know, people who look forward to book release days, who cannot pass a bookstore without going in and browsing, who talk about books they are currently reading and plan to read. Those kinds of people.
Paul’s writing is sympathetic and I could relate to her intense love for books. However, I must point out that unlike Paul asserts in her book that “every girl who aspired to become a writer fancied herself as strong and independent Jo,” I never did. In fact, The Little Women rang a bit too saccharine for my tastes.
I was also amused by the almost sheepish way in which Paul confesses in one of the latter chapters that kidlit was a source of great pleasure for her. As someone who specializes in children’s lit, both academically and creatively, I am entertained when people who have spent their lives reading literary fiction discover the wonder of it and feel guilty for liking it.
Anyway, My Life with Bob was fun reading. Like any bibliophile worth her salt will know, going into other people’s houses is only wonderful for the peeks you can take at their bookshelves, reading Pamela Paul’s memoir was like taking an extended look at someone’s personal bookshelf. She should read more diverse kidlit though.
I do recommend the memoir, especially for other bibliophiles who will take pleasure in reading a book about books.