Books at the wrong time

One area of my life where I feel consistently lucky is discovering books at exactly the right time. Doomsday Book would not have meant nearly as much to me if I read it before the current swine flu epidemic. Enchanted April shocked me with its descriptions of flowering legumes and the Northern Italian coast, just as I was starting to contemplate them both. The sensation that I was intended to read this book at this moment happens often enough that I've come to expect it, to the point that it's noteworthy that I read two books this week without any glimmer that they were meant for me now. Both are great books for someone at some time, but if the universe is directing me in any way by putting these novels in my path, I have certainly missed the signs.

The Elegance of the Hedgehog by Muriel Barberry is fascinating. Chapters alternate between the thoughts of a dumpy middle age concierge in a Parisian apartment building for the very wealthy and a very wealthy precocious twelve year-old who lives there. Both characters are closet intellectuals and philosophers and sharp critics of modern French lifestyles. The allusions to art, philosophy and literature are all over the place: obvious enough that I knew I was missing lots in my ignorance, but not strong enough to make me actually go and look them up. The plot is not what I expected: contrary to some review I had read on Amazon, the book is not about these women befriending each other. The conclusion was startling and well-crafted. Altogether I found it to be a really good book. Yet the whole time I was reading it I kept trying to figure out who I should be recommending it for. It felt obvious that I had discovered something great, but when one is thinking "who should I tell to read this?" rather than reading without analytical thought, something isn't clicking. I want raych to review it and I'd love to hear the thoughts of Tracy, my Mother and my SIL (who could read it in the original French) or anyone else, because I know this book is right for someone, I'm just afraid it wasn't me this week.

Jeanette Winterson's Oranges Are Not the Only Fruit is a coming-of-age novel (that one feels compelled to read as a memoir) about coming to terms with pentecostal evangelism, crazy parents and lesbian desires. Like The Elegance of the Hedgehog, Oranges includes innovative storytelling and some brilliant writing and, like The Elegance of the Hedgehog, it didn't do anything in particular for me now.

Two good books someone should read sometime. Maybe one is the book that you should be reading now and the universe fated me to read it so I could tell you about it. Or maybe the universe does not resolve around my luck with books, and somehow good books make it into my lap without being specifically destined for me (horrifying thought!).