Lately, I have begun seeing advertisements around London for a novel that, according to the blurb, is “funny, wise, and sentient.” Frankly, I am not sure I like the idea of a sentient novel lurking about my flat.
What if it picks fights with my other novels? What if it grows tired of getting stained with spaghetti sauce because I am reading it during meals, and it therefore sneaks into the dishwasher, in a misguided effort to clean itself, where it dies a horrible, waterlogged death? How could I live with myself, knowing that I was personally responsible for the unpleasant death of a funny, wise, and sentient being?
More chillingly, what if it decides I’m not reading it often enough, and it begins to take matters into its own hands? Perhaps it would disguise itself in the dust jacket of books I read more often. Or maybe it would begin stalking me during the day, clinging to my face when I’m trying to watch TV.
I guess what I’m saying is, I’m pretty happy with the relationships I have. I think I will stick to reading books that lack self-awareness.
[Short entry today because we stayed up all night watching the Oscars live from 1AM to 5AM London time. Longer entry to follow later in the week.]
“Or maybe it would begin stalking me during the day, clinging to my face when I’m trying to watch TV.”
This is a great image and I know it’s going to haunt me. Cindy Adams’ The Gift of Jazzy would be a benign assailant … but it’s scary as heck to think of something devastating and creepy like We Need To Talk About Kevin or just devastating like House of Sand and Fog surveying my progress around the house and plotting an attack just when I’ve barely recovered from the trauma of reading them. A whole new meaning to “a gripping read.” And what would happen if Bill Clinton’s upcoming memoirs … ugh … never mind … Thank goodness books aren’t sentient … or are they?
I hadn’t thought about it, but you’re right–some sentient books would be much worse than others. About the only books I can think of that I wouldn’t mind seeing come to life are cookbooks–I’d imagine they could make themselves useful. But why do I suddenly hear the theme from “The Sorcerer’s Apprentice”?