I get out of the tub, grab a robe and go back to the bookshelf leaving wet footprints in my wake. It’s not really intentional, but generally speaking I gravitate towards a certain theme for these lost weekends and, at the moment, I am set on choosing books about relationships that don’t work out. Since most of the world’s greatest classics deal with this subject, I have lots of options. Also, for some strange reason, my books are loosely organized into categories so it’s easy to make a selection based on my mood. Let’s see, do I want to steep myself in obsessive love…something like Wuthering Heights where Heathcliff never did get it on with Cathy…unrequited love, dysfunctional love, adulterous love...Oh, here’s Dorothy Parker...the brilliant cynic with deadpan wit alternating with fits of spiteful alcoholic rage (Hmmmm) and Austen, the optimist. Her love affairs always work out. Not interested. Over here are the dysfunctional family books, including my mother’s dog-eared copy of The Optimist’s Daughter, and on the shelf below, the functional family books, mostly fantasies, sci-fi, or adventure classics which I have treasured since my childhood. I finally gather up the following: Sentimental Education by Flaubert (I lent Virginia my copy of Madame Bovary, which should be right beside it, and she never returned it. You see? That’s why I don’t lend books. It fucks up my whole library.), Anna Karenina, The End of the Affair (miracles and horrid disfigurements), Wuthering Heights (alright, I feel like wallowing), and A Farewell to Arms. God, what a dreary bunch of bath-mates.  Perfect for my grim, listless state of mind. That’ll do for now. Oh well, I’ll throw in Parker too. What the hell, a little comic relief.

I pad back into the bathroom with an armful of books and sink back into the tub. I add more hot water. OK. I’m ready for my period of forlorn contemplation and occasional outbursts of exhilaration prompted by a particularly brilliant passage. What an insufferable lunatic I have become.