The Right Book Right Now

I just finished a book crying.  And it wasn't even particularly sad.  It was just, so, so apt.

Every once in a while, I read a book that speaks to me.  Either somehow it is my book, or transmits the message of the moment for me.

Fall in Colorado, to accompany earlier post

That my a dear friend bought be a copy of The Signature of All Things by Elizabeth Gilbert is not particularly stunning, after all, it is a book about a botanist by a popular author.  That the friend stood in line for a signed copy; that I asked the friend, out of the blue, for a fun book and she happened to have my Christmas present awaiting me; that the book is about historical botanists in Philadelphia, a city about which I know something of the botanical history; that orchids are mocked and adored, that the main character deals with sexual frustration by studying mosses (an idea I thought unique to my ex-boyfriend-- "Someday I'll give up on women entirely and learn how to key out mosses"); that my hero, Alfred Russel Wallace, is also the hero of the book's heroine; that it ends with a shellbark hickory . . . that I'm wondering about hope and light and wanderings on this first Sunday of Advent, that this is but one of three Victorian botanist historical novels suggested to me within weeks of each other*.  Together is all feels so much more than mere coincidence.

It feels so very academic that the Universe speaks to me through novels about botanists, but then, what medium would be more apt?

Dianthus kept our heads in one picture

This rapturous state has me writing in italics. I've been warned about that (by Mr. Carpenter, a character in the Emily books.  Another instance of a book being written for me).  And of course, I suppose it would be far more convenient (and make for better blogging) if every time I read a book that was clearly a message, I could interpret the message (see here for at least one previous mention of failed interpretations).  But if I could interpret divine messages, my calling probably wouldn't be to be uber-rational, pragmatic, plant science teacher and an occasional party-thrower.

I'd very much like more of you to read The Signature of All Things so we can talk about it.  I think it can certainly stand on its literary merits, but I somehow doubt it is your book in quite the same way it is my book, so I don't know how much to promote it.

Meanwhile, I'd love to hear any stories of books speaking to you.  And if you'd like to join me in other tales of Victorian naturalists, *Measuring the World by Daniel Kehlmann and Remarkable Creatures by Tracy Chevalier will be read sometime "this season".

I'm counting this as a flower book for Floraganza, even though the botanical stars are the mosses, which clearly do not have flowers.