The intimacy of book-giving has two sides. There’s the side of the giver — of presuming to know the other person, of the vulnerability of exposing what you think is good or enjoyable. There’s the side of the receiver — of trusting the giver with untold hours of your life, with the deepest emotional part of yourself that a book can sneakily unlock. As someone who gives and receives many books as gifts, the art of book-giving is something near and dear to my heart.
Famous anthropologist Marcel Mauss has a theory of gift exchange, which says that gifts are ways of furthering and creating relationships. Unlike giving a gift, when you exchange money with the cashier at the grocery store, the goods (groceries and money) and actors (yourself and the cashier) are interchangeable. That very interaction could take place anywhere, between any two people. When you leave the store, the interaction is over.
But a gift exchange is different — the actors are integral parts of the exchange itself because they inform everything about the interaction, and the interaction would be irrevocably changed should one or both of the actors be replaced. Because of this relationship between the giver and the receiver, the gift itself becomes inalienable — that is, unable to be exchanged.
If my friend gets me a pair of earrings, and I lose those earrings and get the exact same pair from the same store, the fundamental nature of the object has still changed (and not just because I had to pay for them this time). That’s because part of the specialness of a gift is the fact that it is a gift. That pair of earrings becomes inextricably linked with my friend; I think of her when I see them and wear them. Our society takes issue with overt materialism, but it is natural to imbue certain objects with meaning, especially when they are given as gifts.
I don’t have to explain why books contain innumerable shades of meaning. But giving a book as a gift is like saying, “Here’s the inside of my brain. Here’s what my heart looks like.” Or, similarly, “This is who I think you are. This is how I think of you.” Often, it’s a combination of these things. Sometimes, recommending a book is like saying, “Here, take a look at the deepest parts of myself that a stranger articulated so perfectly.”
Giving a book requires trust, vulnerability and, above all, intimacy. You must trust the other person as they trust you. The book between you represents that trust. In a way, giving someone a book feels like offering them a love letter in which you pour out the inside of your brain and heart in an attempt to let them know you. And is there anything more terrifying than being known? Luckily, I’m not tackling that question right now. I’m just talking about books and love and gift-giving.
Because a book can say so much, and so can a gift, when you combine these inevitable sentimentalities, you are left with a truly intimate object at the center of a truly intimate gift exchange. If the book itself is a love letter, here’s what it’s saying:
“This Connection of Everyone with Lungs” by Juliana Spahr, a collection of ecopoetry, is for someone you feel comfortable with in a way that goes beyond familiarity. I see myself with you as parts of a grand whole from which we cannot escape, but being there together makes me feel less alone. Being with you makes me feel like I can breathe a little easier.
“Garlic and Sapphires” by Ruth Reichl, a memoir by a food critic, is for someone who reminds you of the smell of basil and fresh bread. Being with you feels like a warm kitchen, like garlic bread in the oven, like onions sizzling on the stove.
“Objects of Desire” by Clare Sestanovich, a collection of short stories, is for someone who makes your 20s feel like you’re in a poignant coming-of-age A24 film. If I were to go on a middle-of-the-night road trip to nowhere, just because I had to scream as loud as I could into the night, you would be the person driving. You are like chipping paint in a rented room, familiar yet full of unknown possibilities. Being with you makes me feel like something that’s cliche for a reason, like stargazing or smoking a cigarette outside of a party.
“Bluets” by Maggie Nelson, a poetry-prose collection, is for someone you love so much it could destroy you. It should be read aloud, kept like a secret but shared like some sort of antidote. Being with you is like seeing the color blue for the first time, and then seeing it everywhere.
“Animal Joy” by Nuar Alsadir, a nonfiction book about humor, is for someone who understands that life is all about finding joy. Your laugh is instantly recognizable and wonderfully loud, and I can’t help but smile when I hear it. I can’t be a true pessimist in your presence, and I think it makes me a better person. Being with you is the giddy feeling of having to leave class in fourth grade because if you keep laughing, the teacher will get mad.
“How High We Go in the Dark” by Sequoia Nagamatsu, a collection of connected science fiction short stories, is for someone who has an awe-inspiring imagination. You have that camp counselor storytelling magic power that enraptures an audience around a crackling fire. Somehow, you create something from nothing, and the world is a better place because of those somethings. Being with you is like taking off sunglasses you’ve had on for so long that you forgot you were wearing them.
Books are the perfect love letter. Our favorite authors locate that unanswered, niggling feeling at the base of our skulls and put it into words. Intimacy is putting those words in the hands of another and knowing they’ll understand what you mean: “Here, this is for you. I want you to know me.”
Daily Arts Writer Emilia Ferrante can be reached at emiliajf@umich.edu.