A Year in Reading: Marie-Helene Bertino

I’ve been thinking about how a book is (with exceptions) an object that someone has composed alone. When they were, hopefully, at their most unguarded. When they were, hopefully, at their most honest (I did not say truthful), and least performative. Composed alone, a book is met by a reader who consumes it (with exceptions) also alone, at their most unguarded and, hopefully, most permeable. The space in which we meet at our most unguarded is sacramental.

A book locates its reader where and they are. Many times, this means the home. Where we work and have sex and cry and cook and dream. This year we were forced to remain in our most intimate spaces for longer than most would have preferred. Our