When people talk of "summer reading," they usually refer to the sort of book that gets left at the cottage or on the airplane. "Lite" reading, in other words: the sort of thing one might feel guilty for enjoying. Robert E. Howard, Ann Rice, Tom Wolfe and Louis L'Amour have ponied up in my stable of summer writers, and it's not unusual for me to devote the season to coping with Neal Stephenson. But this year I'm noticing a trend (if only among me cobbers) toward weightiness. People are reading books they've put off, or held at some remove.
To that end, I believe I may just bite the bullet and read Cormac McCarthy's The Road. This is a book I've taken pains to avoid even though I admit to reading and enjoying his Border Trilogy and Blood Meridian. Lest I leave anyone with the impression that I'm just pulling a Franzen, I'll state my reasons outright: reading the selections being quoted by reviewers (here and here) has been enough for me to fight back tears. I'm not sure the three women in this house are up to dealing with a blubbering pater familias, but no matter: I shall soldier on, and so shall they.
As soon as I've landed my copy, it will join the others "On The Floor." My blogular thoughts are bound to follow.