My mum just came into my room and we spent about 2 hours talking about books, and it was Good and Wholesome. She picked up my copy of Papillon by Henri Charrière, which I’ve been trying and largely failing to read for about a week, and I told her about some of my favourite literary hoaxes and fake memoirs. She was upset when I told her about how the author of Roots was successfully sued for plagiarism, because it was one of her favourite stories (she loves the TV series), and so I lent her my copy of Binjamin Wilkomirski’s Fragments, which is a hideous and terrible fake Holocaust memoir by a compulsive liar, and the exposé of it by Blake Eskin, and she cheered right up.
My mum likes to read awful books as a form of catharsis, I think. She lives in the Kindle free books section. She devours terrible literature and then gleefully rants about how bad it was over dinner. I almost think she enjoys bad books over good ones, sometimes.
Then she followed me downstairs and proudly showed me her Stephen King collection, and told me that I had to read Pet Sematary because the cat in it is like Clod. What a literary evening.