A Book to Fall Asleep Beside

Before we begin, I would like to clarify. I am not going to spend this next little while talking about a book that bores me so much, I feel exhausted and go to sleep. This is quite the opposite. This post is about a book to fall asleep beside.

Recently, I started reading Truman Capote’s In Cold Blood. I’ve only just started, but already I can tell it’s a book I will relish reading. There is, however, an interesting setback, and it is this: In Cold Blood will take me a long time to read, and an even longer time to finish. I have a ritual of reading a book every night before I go to bed, but that is my minimum. On any given day you might find me curled up in a corner with a pot of tea, deep into a book, only to look up and realise the sun has set, and it’s almost time for dinner.

This book is not like that. I mentioned to my father that I had started to read this book, and he said, ‘Oh, it’s chilling,’ or something to that affect. And I have no doubt he is correct. I too, find it alarming that I am relaxed by a well-told recount of horrifying true crime. Who knew I would find so much comfort in murder most foul? But, it’s not the subject matter. It’s the prose. The hot hush of noon of the tiny town of Holcomb makes my limbs heavy and the sweet, soft life of the Clutters makes my heart ease to a steady thrum. I will, unquestioningly, at some point, be thrown out of my reverie by the crimes committed, but for now, I am blissfully ignorant.

What I admire most about Capote in this work is compassionate, insightful and captivating. In Cold Blood has a undertone of strangeness to it, and I think this is one of the examples where I can comfortably say that truth is stranger than fiction. I have not read much of this book, but the rhythm of the Clutters’ lives rids me of my to-do lists, plans for tomorrow and concerns from today. It is a book I read in an almost meditative state. While that might change as I read on, for now, I have a book that allows me to be mellow. My jaw slackens, I stop frowning, I stop fidgeting.

I hope that, as readers, we can all find a book like this. A book that allows us to inhale and exhale. It whispers, murmurs, purrs, and we respond by treading softly through its pages, unperturbed by unfinished chapters, incomplete character descriptions and plots in progress. No matter what you read after this, I hope it welcomes you as much as Truman’s prose welcomes me.

Yours in undying attention (except when I’m reading),

Lydia.