My life in seventeen books A literary memoir

Sweeney celebrates the books that never left him in this literary memoir. Some books just get their hooks into you. "Have you carried a book in your bag long after the time of reading it has passed, because it has become essential for you in ways that would be difficult to explain?" asks Sweeney early in this volume, which is all about the amazing bond that can form--sometimes unexpectedly--between a reader and a particular tome. Often these books come to readers at key moments in their lives, aiding them in understanding the path forward. Tales of the Hasidim by Martin Buber, for example, which Sweeney found in a used bookshop while traveling for work, helped him to contextualize his failing marriage. Some reading experiences come with a blush of embarrassment: At the age of 21, Sweeney brought a biography of activist Thomas Merton on his honeymoon, much to the chagrin of his bride. (It wasn't the only time a book got him into trouble; his sixth grade teacher was disturbed to notice Sweeney happily making his way through a 1,400-page biography of Adolf Hitler.) His love of Wendell Berry's Recollected Essays inspired a college-age Sweeney to spend his spring break driving to Kentucky to try to meet the man. From classics by Tagore, Tolstoy, and Thoreau to more obscure works, like the Bengali religious text The Gospel of Sri Ramakrishna and Frederick Rolfe's "fantasy papal novel" Hadrian the Seventh, the author charts his personal and spiritual development through the texts he could never seem to put down, even after he finished reading them. Sweeney's affinity for books is apparent in every sentence of his lush prose: "This chapter is also about how pictures can make a book something other-wordly: passionate pages moving the heart, or feet, and stirring the emotions. At certain books we are meant to gaze. We look at them differently than others. We take them in, more than read them." The memoir will be of greatest interest to spiritual readers, but all book-lovers will recognize themselves in these essays. A meandering bibliophile's memoir that links spiritual development to the written word. Copyright (c) Kirkus Reviews, used with permission.

T he only reason I was ever in Walnut Creek, California to stumble upon my Tales of the Hasidim was because I had targeted a new toy company to try and convince them to stock our illustrated children's books. An early flight from Minneapolis/St. Paul to San Francisco, followed by a rental car counter and drive, lunch with a regular customer in Berkeley, and then a short drive to Walnut Creek, landed me in an enormous field of asphalt: the new toy company's parking lot. The business appointment went quickly, as they always did. I never went in for the top-handed shake or dog and pony show presentations. Don't waste their time was my motto, and it seemed to work. I don't remember precisely but she may have been one of the potential customers with whom I obtained an appointment by assuring on the telephone, "I will be in and out of your office in less than ten minutes, I promise." This was said in response to, "I'm very busy. Just send me something in the mail and I'll look at it." I was in and out that quickly. All the more amazing, remembering it now, is that I flew 2,000 miles on such a whim and a chance. Such were those optimistic days of seeking opportunities in the books biz. So I then had a free afternoon and knew where I would go: to what I ' d heard were the best used bookstores in the area. Top of that list was Bonanza Street Books, named the "Best of the East Bay," a store which is now sadly gone. It was the kind of used and out-of-print specialist that people on Yelp today complain about as "too stuffed with books," as if having difficulty moving about in a bookstore due to inventory excess were a negative thing. Right away I saw the Buber on display in an area marked "New Arrivals." I picked it up and turned it over, probably in a way similar to how bread makers examine the bake of a loaf just out of the oven. I have seen a baker tap the bottom of a sourdough with his thumb, brush a forefinger across the top of the loaf, and then breathe in its aroma. Excerpted from My Life in Seventeen Books: A Literary Memoir by Jon M. Sweeney All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.