Today I finished Tom Wolfe’s book from the late 1980’s called “The Bonfire of the Vanities.” I got hooked on Tom Wolfe after reading his newest book, “I am Charlotte Simmons.” So now I’m going back and reading all of his books. I picked up “Bonfire” at the bookstore a couple weeks ago when my plane was delayed.

Having a novel around the house is a great way to calm my nerves and forces me to be still. I read several books in elementary and middle school when teachers are trying hard to get youngsters to become readers. But by seventh grade, I knew the only thing I wanted to do was to draw. Others would bury themselves in a book, and I’d lose myself with pen and paper. But in the last five years I’ve begun reading more to pass the endless hours of traveling on airplane. I can see now why teachers try so hard to get us to read. It keeps you imagination sparkling, and it improves your use of the language. It really is sad when I meet someone who does not read. They are missing so much.

So I got this “Bonfire” book, curious to see how Wolfe told the story of the high life in New York City in the late 80s. He’s a great writer, so I have little more to say about that. But it’s comical to hear about what parts of town had what stereotypes back then. Through the 680 pages, it became clear that the only good part of the city was the Upper East Side. When I lived in Manhattan in 2001, I worked out at a club in that part of town. It was tidy and well manicured, but it was an otherwise lifeless part of town. One character in the book was embarrassed to live on the Upper West Side of Manhattan, which, ironically, is now home to the rock stars and celebrities.

I read the last chapter while laying in my hammock on my patio. It was such a perfect evening. It was in the high sixties and there wasn’t a cloud in the sky. The new plants and soil in the backyard filled the air with a comforting earthy aroma that I’ve never had at my house. I usually can only smell sun on concrete.

It’s exhilarating to finish a book. When you begin a novel, you constantly fighting back the bulk of pages in your right hand. You lift your thumb and hundreds of pages will flutter to your left hand, reminding you how much you still have left to go. Half way through the book, you hold a balanced book, weighted equally in each hand. But nothing can describe the tingly feeling you get when you only hold a dozen pages in your right hand. The thinning pages between your fingers matches the climaxing story. I love it!

I don’t like that I’m talking like this because I sound like someone in Oprah’s book club. I remember as a kid watching Oprah one day after school, and she described the times and places that she liked to read. I was embarrassed for Oprah. How could she talk like this on television? Now, here I am, writing the same stuff on my website.