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Two people (and we’ll call them Brooke and Ally) told me I should read THE HISTORY OF LOVE by Nicole Krauss. Brooke told me in an email and she said she loved it and she thought I would love it too. Brooke and I have only spoken briefly in person a few times. But we are friends because of words. In emails mostly. But once a handwritten note she sent me in the MAILBOX along with a swim cap for a triathlon I was going to try to complete and she knew I was scared.

There’s nothing like a friend and a hand written note to get you over fear of triathloning.

Anyway, Brooke said I should read this book.
I will.
Someday.

Then someone else. Weeks later. A friend named Ally knew I was having a rough day. Writing was thick and heavy and even worse were things surrounding writing. Things I’m not good at. So she showed up on my doorstep with cookies and THE HISTORY OF LOVE.

You’ll love it, she said.

Two people. Same book. Now Brooke and Ally are connected and they didn’t even know each other existed.

So I read it.
And they were right.
I did love it.

I loved it like I kept closing the book and looking at the author picture.

Do you ever do that? Look at the author? Think things like, Did you really write this? How did you write this? When did you write this? You are skinny. What does your house look like? Have you been writing like this forever? How long did it take you to write this? What did you sacrifice to write this? Are you scared of seaweed? What would I say to to you if I met you?

We meet so many people and we see them and think we know them and who they are. But do we know them? Do we know anyone? If I saw her on the street, this person, would I see the HISTORY OF LOVE? There are so many things inside us, so many things we can do and be. A picture in the back of the book and she wrote this.

There’s one part called “the Birth of Feeling”

“Just as there was a first instant when someone rubbed two sticks together to make a spark, there was a first time joy was felt, and a first time for sadness . . . It’s also true that sometimes people felt things and, because there was no word for them, they went unmentioned. The oldest emotion in the world may be that of being moved; but to describe it–just to name it–must have been like trying to catch something invisible. . . . Having begun to feel, people’s desire to feel grew. They wanted to feel more, feel deeper, despite how much it sometimes hurt. People became addicted to feeling. They struggled to uncover new emotions. It’s possible that this is how art was born.”
THE HISTORY OF LOVE pp. 106-107

I had never thought about this before. I had never thought about what it means to catch a feeling or miss a feeling all because I couldn’t find the words. Are we addicted to feeling? Is this art?

I am happy to have friends.
I am happy books link us.
I am happy books can open us up.
I am happy books push us.
I am happy books change us.
I am happy.