The Trouble with Recommendations

It’s an exciting prospect. Asking another eager, searching mind to share their beloved discoveries. And yet, it is a hopeless exchange. It doesn't work.

The defining joy of a new book, an new essay, novel or poem, is the simple fact that you discovered it. That you picked it up, either by happy chance, or decided interest. That in all, you picked it up at the right time for you.

Whether stumbled upon amongst a volume lined bookshelf, found in passing in the pages of another book, or finally approached after years of vaguely rambling about in the recesses of your mind. There is a sacred thrill in that intimate exchange, where the words on the page and the ones wandering around your head are bestowed that sanctifying baptism of fire, where they meet and dance in a silent dialogue of thought.

Pick a book up that someone recommended, those joys feel compromised. The personal communion is lost. Somewhere, silently on the sidelines there’s a third-wheeler. That, kind, well meaning, but ultimately superfluous other.