Blind Book Dating

I’ve recently realised that recommending books to your friends/family/work colleagues/anyone who will listen to your burbling about literature is rather like being a matchmaker. You are bringing together two sides which, in your opinion, would be great together and whose union would lead to an increase of happiness. After all, you wouldn’t recommend an awful book to someone, just like you wouldn’t purposely set them up with an anti-social alcoholic (unless you secretly hated them, of course).

Out of interest, I search the term ‘matchmaking’ on the internet to see what came up (beyond dating websites) and found this quote on the Wikipedia entry:

Matchmakers trade on the belief that romantic love is something akin to a human right, and the modern online dating service is just one of many examples of a dating system where technology is invoked almost as a magic charm with the capacity to bring happiness.

I have a feeling that the author of this post isn’t a great lover of such services, but I think they have a point. We now see a romantic relationship with another person as a mandatory component of everyone’s lives, regardless of whether they’d like one. In my opinion, this is utter drivel. Fantastic reading material on the other hand? Now, that is something each of us needs…

I am loving the rolling ladder. WANT. And the books, too. Or what use would the ladder be?

Why has this epiphany suddenly stuck me? A few weeks ago I was talking to one of my colleagues and the subject turned to books, as it has done on previous occasions and following her recommendation to me of Death and the Penguin I mentioned my favourite author, Margaret Atwood. (Regular readers of this blog will be sick to the back teeth of me mentioning her by now, but once more can’t hurt.) My friend had never read anything by Atwood so I quickly rattled off a few titles she should procure and then proceeded to enthuse about these books, trying to convey just how good I think they are. I received firm assurance that she would pick The Handmaid’s Tale as the premise was so intriguing.

I left the conversation feeling pleased; there was another potential Atwood fan in the making, woo-hoo. (Fairly certain I should be in line for a commission, with the amount of time I spend recommending her work.) Then I considered… What if she didn’t like the book? What if she couldn’t finish it? What if she thought it was… awful? Will this person ever be able to take my word again? Have I lost all literary credibility or can I redeem myself? Just as if you had set them up with someone who turned out to be so wrong for them, they are now questioning your tastes and exactly how you see them:

You thought this would end well? You think that’s my type? Did you really not conceive how awkward it would be? I mean, I made it to the end of the date (book) but that’s time I’ll never get back. I think you should make it up to me. I’d like cake, please.

As any self-respecting bibliophile will know, your favourites are labelled as such for damn good reasons. You are forsaking all others and binding yourself to these sacred texts*, how can you cope if someone tells you the words on those pages are the wrong ones?! What is left of your opinion of them? They can’t have read the right book, they took a wrong turn in the book shop and ended up in “Shiterary” section…

As it turns out, my recommendation has been spot on. Phew. Although not finished with Handmaid’s Tale, she’s really enjoying it and hopefully the rest of the novel can keep up the standard.

I like making suggestions to others, that’s partly what this blog is about. Not only are we critiquing the choices of others, but by expressing our love for a book, we’re telling anyone who’ll listen (read) that they need this story in their life.

I wonder if there are many people out there who like keeping favourites to themselves…??

*Until/If you read something else a-bloody-mazing that needs to fit on that mental/literal shelf