Getting ready to move, I've realized that our house is full of books. Of course, this doesn't surprise me whatsoever. I haven't even started bringing my office books into the house, and already it's total clutter. What does startle me is the accuracy with which Gabriella can find her three purported favorites --Margaret Atwood's Cat's Eye, Anne Tyler's The Accidental Tourist, and John Updike's Rabbit at Rest-- even when we reshelve them.
Yes, we do have children's books available. Gabi could just as easily tote The Very Hungry Caterpillar around with her, or Madeline in London. A few months back, she'd rifle through the Cliff's Notes and carry them around with her (she was partial to Tristam Shandy) but seems that was just a phase.
In the back of my mind you know I'm wondering ...why not poetry? Turco's New Book of Forms is the perfect size for wee hands. Or Braided Creek by Jim Harrison and Ted Kooser. No. Gabi is down with the paperback novels. I will comfort myself with the fact that two of the three are women authors, and that she likes the cover art on Cat's Eye best. "Mom," she says, "that lady's holding a ball."
So what do you think: Do we inherit taste from our surroundings, or are we born with our own aesthetic values? Anyone out there who rebelled against parental literary leanings? (At this point I should probably mention that two of the three paperbacks originally belonged to my folks. Definitely hereditary in my personal case study.)