Because I was missing Janie something fierce this morning, I browsed through my collection of Mary Oliver's Percy poems. This one in particular had me laughing, for I have had this very conversation with Janie on several occasions. My copies of Buechner's "A Sacred Journey," Shakespeare's Complete Works (Norton edition), and the Bible will all ruefully back Janie's dismissive claim. You have to give that brazen darling some credit: she has, all too literally, good literary taste.

Percy And Books (Eight)

Percy does not like it when I read a book.
He puts his face over the top of it and moans.
He rolls his eyes, sometimes he sneezes.
The sun is up, he says, and the wind is down.
The tide is out and the neighbors' dogs are playing.
But Percy, I say. Ideas! The elegance of language!
The insights, the funniness, the beautiful stories
that rise and fall and turn into strength, or courage.

Books? says Percy. I ate one once, and it was enough.
Let's go.

[Mary Oliver, Red Bird]