There’s been a story going around lately in the news and on social media about Jolabokaflod, a gift-giving tradition in Iceland, where people give each other gifts of books on Christmas Eve and everyone spends the night snuggled down with a good read. This “Christmas book flood” is illustrative of the strength of reading in Iceland, a country with a population of 339,000 that publishes more books per capita than any other country in the world.
When my daughter was young, we had our own Christmas book flood. We would go to our local independent bookstore, where Cinda, the owner, knew me and my reading tastes. I’d browse across the store, my daughter would browse across the kid’s section. I’d pick 3-4 titles I really wanted to read, we’d meet at the register, and I’d leave the store and sit in the car. She and the store owner would decide which one was perfect for me that year and Cinda would wrap it up. I’d come back in and pay for everything.
Over the years, the Christmas book shelf grew in unexpected ways:
The Emperor of all Maladies by Siddhartha Mukherjee (I’d forgotten this won the Pulitzer Prize for non-fiction)
Mrs. Queenie Takes the Train by William Kuhn, a delightful ‘what if’ Queen Elizabeth went AWOL one morning to ride the trains all day.
The Lacuna by Barbara Kingsolver, an epic journey from the Mexico City of artists Diego Rivera and Frida Kahlo to the America of Pearl Harbor, FDR, and J. Edgar Hoover.
The Novel Cure by Ella Berthoud and Susan Elderkin. A primer on bibliotherapy.
I don’t care if it’s a White Christmas but I’m sure hoping for a book flood.
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