The other day I was on ride-a-long with the cops, and the arresting officer asked me if a I was a reader. I told him yes, indeed I was. He asked my what I read. I told him, fiction mostly. Then he asked me a disturbing question. Not disturbing from his perspective, but from mine. “What’s your favorite book?”
I had no answer, hence the disturbance.
I love lots of books. I have some preferred authors, yes yes, but one… favorite… book? Kibbital? Meep. Moooooo. Uh…. what’s that again? My brain short circuted. Suddenly, I could think of no books at all! ACK!
So, I’ve been wracking my brain ever since and trying to figure out which is my favorite.
It’s fun to lie, but in this case, I won’t. I can’t possibly think of a favorite book. It’s not like a movie, or game, or sport, or band or TV show. Books don’t lend themselves to favoritism. Some clearly suck. Some are quite awesome. It’s not even a matter of having too many favorites to choose.
The problem is that books are such a long experience that you rank them more like friends. Different friends are best in different situations and for different reasons. I could reccomend authors, or certain books for certain people, but to declare one the favorite is ludicrous.
So I realized that the cop was in fact a stupid, worthless shit and he deserved to be peed on. The judge disagreed.
From Jail,
Murk
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