He scans the newspaper, and most days reads it thoroughly. But with books, he finds them to be pointless, "...there's nothing alive about it, it's all dead and gone...". This of course made me wonder how he would feel now, with his character still in print, still being read and loved by millions (or possibly just me?), but still quite vibrant and full of sparks.
I think it's great how you can read any Rex Stout book featuring Nero and Archie, and without much effort, you are instantly transported to a world you feel at home in. Obviously there is an element of nostalgia. But there is more: the feel of the words, pictures they summon, the emotions they create.
The memories are not limited to what's between the pages, but also what's between the lines - our own memories from previous readings. This got me thinking about the past and the first time I read this particular book.
I remember finding it on my grandparents' attic bookshelf. They weren't big on keeping "popular" books around the house. Often the editions were rare, valuable or collectible. But this one slightly scuffed paperback was resting on a lower shelf, alone, and fairly unimportant looking. Still, it peeked out and seemed to say, "It's alright, I'm not anything fancy, you can pick me up and you won't get in trouble. Give us a try."
I studied the cover and consulted the copyright page. It was from Great Britain, an edition from the 1970's. I made my way downstairs and politely asked my grandmother, "May I please read this? I found it upstairs. It didn't look important, so I thought it might be ok? I'll put it back when I'm done, I promise!"
Taking it from me she smiled at the cover, as if it were a lost friend, rediscovered. She expressed puzzlement that I had found it upstairs. "All of these were moved, I thought. But certainly, go ahead and read it if you like. Now, Oreo or chocolate chip?"
I would later learn the rest had been moved to my grandparents' room so my grandmother could read them while she was recovering from some ailment. This lone text had apparently been separated from its brethren during their migration from attic to bedroom. After explaining that I should deposit it with her when I finished it, she sent me off to the back room with cookies and my discovery.
Unfortunately, the reasons for my being there that day are gone from my mental files, but I know it was raining. That probably explained why I happened to be hunting for something to do or read in the first place.
I know she was babysitting me for some reason, which was unusual. I don't remember how old I was, but given that the cookie stage ran out at my grandparents' house sometime around eight or nine, I must have been a bit younger than that. I recall that I could still fit my entire body into one square cushion of the old, brown, corduroy sofa.
There I sat. I opened the soft paper cover, displayed a slightly yellowing first page, and just like that... my life had irrevocably changed.
Over the course of that plate of cookies and probably three or four hours of reading, I met Nero Wolfe and Archie Goodwin. I had been introduced to Fritz Brenner and his magical cooking skills. I had cautiously greeted Inspector Cramer. I heard about Theodore Horstmann and the ten-thousand orchids. I had been invited into the old Brownstone on West 35th Street in New York City. I had toured the office, the dining room, the kitchen, the front room, the elevator and briefly spied the bedrooms, I had made the acquaintance of dozens of new words such as Odontoglossum and Cattleya and gullery. This was especially fascinating, as I thought I already knew all of the words I would ever need.
By the time I put the book down, dusk had come, the rain had stopped and I was breathless with excitement. I knew that there were more of these books somewhere and now I needed more. I had to know if every book was as beautiful, if every story was - as Wolfe would say - satisfactory. But it was almost dinner time and I would be leaving soon. I handed the book back to my grandmother, who immediately put it with her (unknown to me) treasured collection. My adventure suspended.
Thankfully, the suspension did not last long. The very next day, I went to the library, with my mother as my escort. I was free to choose my selection, as always. I made my way immediately to the S's and scooped up all five of the books they had available. I still didn't know how many there were, but even those five seemed like a bounty.
I was so used to characters that only had one story, or perhaps two. I had read a few serials, but most of the time the library would have one book in a series (the most recent) and little else. When I consulted my mother over my choices, she smiled and said, "I remember reading these." That alone was encouragement enough. If two generations of my family could smile at the covers; the silent recommendation spoke volumes to me.
I read all of them. I had to request books from libraries all over the state. In the days before email, I can only imagine the long distance charges and faxes that had to be exchanged. But it was worth it. In time, I came to own all of the stories; books, anthologies, omnibuses. This was almost two decades ago now, but I still read them.
I have plenty of other things I read, mostly only once or twice. I read new books all the time and I think I have over a thousand ebooks on my Kindle, roughly half of which are still waiting for attention. But never confuse quantity for quality, especially in literature.
There are very few authors that merit re-reading in my world. Neal Stephenson's novels, Night of the Avenging Blowfish by John Welter (which I highly recommend), all of the different Nancy Drew series, Dave Barry, a few others. Most of these I reread once or twice a year, when the mood strikes.
Then there is Rex Stout. Almost without fail, I cycle through over 70 Nero Wolfe short story trios and novels - which takes about a month - in order of publication. I probably do this anywhere from half a dozen to a dozen times a year. I still find words that I don't know occasionally, scenes that I find a deeper meaning in, little flourishes I somehow missed. For what they are, that alone is unexpected and magical. They are just that good.
