This is a woman who name-drops poets during press junkets. A woman who often talks about the pieces of literature that helped her prepare for a particular role. A woman who, when asked about her nonexistent romantic life, said, “I’m not lonely, and I think that has a lot to do with what’s on my bedside table rather than what’s in my bed.” A woman who carries clutches made to look like books (Salinger's A Catcher in the Rye and Miller's The Misfits) on the red carpet. She is a writer's actor.
My husband and I went out the evening after the photos were published online, and I kept hoping we would bump into her. Not because I wanted an autograph or a photo, or even to talk to her; I like her too much to accost her in public. I just wanted to slip her a piece of paper with the names of my favorite books on it.
I want her to read the essay "Liv Ullman in Spring" by Andre Dubus, the one I read to J in bed, which caused us both to drip tears onto our pillow. I want her to read The Chronology of Water by Lidia Yuknavitch, the only book I have ever finished and immediately started reading again from the beginning. I want her to read The Shadow of the Sun by Ryszard Kapuscinski, a book so beautiful it can only be read a few pages at a time, because any more would be too much to bear.
I want her to love the same books I love, to hold them under her sweater in the rain. I want her to idolize the same authors I do, to imagine hosting dinner parties for them at her house, as I imagine doing the same at mine. Somehow, this seems as good as knowing her. Maybe better.
