[Image: “Elliott Erwitt, Personal Exposures,” by Thomas Hawk. Found this photo of the book cover over on Flickr, and now I think I’ll have to find the book itself somewhere… although it’ll probably have to wait until we stop moving, since there’s no Kindleized edition of it.]

Prepping for departure from San Diego, at the end of a four-night stay…

During this whole year-long road trip, of course, The Missus and I have plenty of opportunities to talk to each other (occasionally — as happens — not always when our beloved is prepared to be talked to). But as lifelong readers, we’re also spending plenty of time with our noses hovering over our books (well, our Kindles). The implicit conversations we have with these authors’ works have, I think, helped to keep us focused, patient, and civil during those times when we aren’t reading. All of which found an echo this week over at whiskey river:

Canto Nine

It must have been raining a hundred days,
and the water that saturated
the roots of all the plants
Reached the library and soaked all the holy words
which were closed up in the convent.

When the good weather came,
Sajat-Novà, who was the youngest monk,
got a ladder and took all the books up to the roof,
out in the sun. Then he waited for the warm air
to dry the wet paper.

There was a month of good weather
and the monk kneeled down in the courtyard
waiting for the books to give some sign of life.
And finally one morning the pages started
to rustle slightly in the breeze.
It sounded like a swarm of bees had arrived on the roof
and he started to cry because the books were talking.

(Tonino Guerra, translated by Adria Bernardi [source])

…and in an echo not from whiskey river:

Kindred souls — indeed, my selves otherwise costumed — turn up in books in the most unexpected places. Discovering them is one of the great rewards of a liberal education. If I quote liberally, it is not to show off book learning, which at my age can only invite ridicule, but rather to bathe in this kinship of strangers.

(Yi-Fu Tuan [source])

“Kinship of strangers”: yes — mostly. As with social-media friends, I tend to selectivity with books — choosing those most likely to remain friends over the long haul. Granted, every now and then I’ve guessed wrong: a favorite author of fiction turns out to be an utter bore when writing at length about their own life; the protagonist of a beloved series starts behaving like an unpredictable drunk at the utterly civil soiree in my head; a nonfiction title on an important subject suddenly throws a tantrum. But for the most part, the company I keep within the front and back covers of a book is like the company I keep in the front seats of our car: we know and love each other, and behave (and speak, and listen) accordingly.