Every book I’ve read has impacted my life in some way. From Hemingway’s fable about catching a fish to Stephen King’s demon clown: from Herman Hess’s tale of spiritual discovery to Jack Reacher surfing the back of a New York subway train. Each has enticed me, enlightened me, or entertained me. Even the worst books have, at the very least, taught me not to read that author again.
It’s for these reasons I find it difficult to answer the question: what’s your favorite book? It’s almost like being asked which finger or toe do you like most? They all have been useful at some point and I can’t imagine a life without any of them. The same is true for books.
That’s said, for a recent writing assignment I was asked to choose my favorite book and give reasons why I liked it. It wasn’t easy. I had to let that question percolate for a few days. For this type of task my subconscious is always much better at getting results than my impulsive frontal cortex. Sure enough, after a few days the answer popped up like a slice of bread from a toaster.
A Prayer for Owen Meany.
Written by John Irving this is a story about the friendship of two boys, John Wheelwright and Owen Meany. As with all adolescent relationships there are ups and downs. In this case Owen kills Johns mother in a tragic baseball accident. If that wasn’t bad enough, soon after he declares he was acting as an instrument of god.
This isn’t a typical run-of-the-mill story. It’s a strange and complex novel filled with memorable characters and intriguing events. Owen himself, a wimpy boy with a screechy, scratchy, voice is an amazing literary creation. A pint-sized prophet that spends much of the story talking about his death.
It’s been almost 20 years since a friend recommended this book to me. He handed me his dog-eared copy and the first thing I remember was the weight. At over 800 pages it felt like a brick. Back then long books intimidated me and I knew there was a good chance I wouldn’t finish it. In fact it took me a couple of weeks before I even opened the book. But once I did, I never looked back. I was hooked by the first sentence, a sentence I can still recite to this day.
“I am doomed to remember a boy with a wrecked voice. Not because of his voice, or because he was the smallest person I ever knew, or even because he was the instrument of my mother's death, but because he is the reason I believe in God.”
I don’t think I’ve read a better opener. It perfectly encapsulates the plot and sucks the reader right into the story. This was Irving’s seventh novel and he was at the the peak of his storytelling powers. He effortlessly brought wonderful characters to life and put them in a surreal yet completely believable world.
As with all Irving’s work this book is not just heavy in weight, it’s also heavy with theme and emotion. Irving never shies away from big topics and in A Prayer for Owen Meany he tackles subjects such as religion, the Vietnam war and racism, to name a few. It is also, despite these heavy hitting topics, one of the funniest books I’ve ever read.
It took me over a month to reach devastating last page and once I did I wanted to read it all over again. I didn’t. Instead I picked up some of this other titles. Hotel New Hampshire, The World According to Garp. Widow for a Year. Although not considered the most prolific of writers (one book every five years) he’s had a 50 year long career so there’s are plenty to choose from.