With a name like Prose...
The NY Times Book Review has a special slot on my Sunday schedule. In this a.d.d. world, it affirms that books, and more importantly, the time consuming process of mulling over words and putting together sentences that convey thoughts clearly--the act of writing, is still valued. Book Reviews in the Times generally go on for 3 pages before even mentioning the actual book and then it gets like 2 paragraphs--with a quick reference to a third book for comparison. I'm fine with that. They're always well written and this sort of reviewer is often not a book critic per se, but an "expert" in the subject matter. So historians compare the book with others exploring related disasters/discoveries; political consultants frame the ideas against the prevailing strategies of whatever domestic/foreign policy; and professors parse the un/successful efforts to riff on various writerly, pop culture, way back in the day, or other influence. It's a macro read of the big concepts in a book. I enjoy reading them in part because it's reassuring to know that books are still subjects of and a means to explore big and small ideas.
Those reviews make some parts of my brain feel bigger, but they have never made me feel close to the reviewer or author. I'm often left thinking, "That was a very smart intellectual exercise. So was it a good book? Was it well written? Did it have funnies? Do you even LIKE to read?" Reading with Francine Prose is like the opposite of this macro read. She's like my new best friend. She shares her exuberance for a well chosen quirky word and graceful sentences and reminds me of the pleasures of savoring each word. She loves to read. She writes well about her love of reading--not an easy meta task. This book reminded me of all the reasons why it's SO WRONG that 1 in 4 Americans did not read a book last year. Anyway, I've been carting this around and making mental appointments to read snippets of it at a time--kind of like a cozy coffee date with a new friend. Check it out.