Then there was our mutual love of the movies. Will taught me to watch for certain directors & actors, producers & screenwriters (that was key, y'all, learning to notice); he introduced me to John Carpenter's THE THING for chrissakes! Ren & Stimpy! Bill Plympton! Liquid Television! (Ah, Aeon Flux. Whither??)
But amid these similarities was a difference. When a new addition to Will's Stephen King Library arrived, for instance, I had to read it without cracking the spine or bending pages.
Sigh. 1982 Kurt Russell. Does it get any better?
And that, y'all, ain't how a sista reads.
I believe books are meant to be lived in. I believe in cracking spines and cracking 'em hard, forcing the ribs of the book wide open. Dissecting plots with sharp dog-ears, marking a passage's can't-stop-what-I'm-doing intensity with coffee rings, creasing covers until they wrinkle like bed sheets. Books should be devoured. Consumed. Digested into the well-worn pulp of satisfaction for the next reader, like breaking in the ass of a pair of jeans before passing them on.
Speaking of which, I hope like hell Carpenter broke in the original enough that this new prequel won't suck. It has Scott Pilgrim's Ramona and LOST's Mr. Eko. A good sign??
Anyway, what about you? Handle your books with kid gloves or the bloody prints of a reader in the trenches?