I read a lot; at least, I have a lot of books. I have read some of them. Hell, I’ve read most of them. As far as I’m concerned, this qualifies me to make suggestions to people about books they should read.

Let me be clear. This is merely a suggestion. Not a review. It’s been too long since I took an English class to discuss this book in the vernacular it deserves. At the moment all I really remember from English class is occasionally spending it in the library while other students gave their oral book reports. I’d convince my teacher that I was about to read whatever book was to be reported on and didn’t want it to be spoiled. While in the library some friends and I would discuss starting a crime syndicate. Selling answers to test questions on the black market; slinging grade A homework under the bleachers.

A review would also be a mistake considering I’ve only read this book once; and that was two years ago. Some of the details are sort of hazy. There’s also the issue of the tremendous amount of useless pop culture minutia I have accumulated over the years. I’d hate to be in the middle of a meticulous and articulate discussion of the plot only to find I’ve been writing about The Breakfast Club.

Anyway; the book is called The Brothers K. Not to be confused with The Brothers Karamazov, that’s just an optical allusion. The Brothers K tells the story of the Chance family through decades of love, loss, war and baseball. That’s about all I remember. At least that’s all I can say without completely ruining the story.

What I can say is that The Brothers K reminded me what it feels like to be moved by a book. It’s difficult for me to be truly moved by a book. I rarely laugh out loud and I almost never cry. That’s not to say that I don’t very much enjoy reading, I do.  It’s not that I have a bad sense of humor or that I’m insensitive. I just have a thick skin. Partly because in the third grade my outfit of choice was long sleeve button down collared shirts; tucked into sweatpants. I’m all for letting children express themselves, but I wish my mother would have given me a heads up that I looked like an accountant fucked a homeless man. I had enough problems – what with the glasses and the bowl cut – with out a bunch of freckle faced sons of bitches calling me Doctor Sweatpants.

There’s a part in The Brothers K where I just lost it. I don’t mean that my chin shook while my lower lip quivered. Then a single tear ran down my cheek. I mean I lost it: Tears streaming down my face, a deluge of snot; the kind of cry that burns calories. Where afterwards eyes are dry and cracked red; and body is occasionally hit by aftershocks of sobbing.

It’s not that The Brothers K is some kind of sorrow porn; what is your problem Nicholas Sparks? It’s just at a certain point a few plot lines come together in a single scene that is so beautifully joyous and tragic it overwhelmed my usual proclivity to be cynical and cold. This was quite a shock to my system; considering I forgot what it felt like to be moved by a book. Sure I could appreciate them. But there’s a difference between appreciating and being moved. Appreciating is voluntary in many ways. A person can talk themselves into appreciating something, or dissect a thing until they find something to appreciate. Being moved is involuntary. Some outside stimuli – and all it represents – takes over. It takes possession of the spirit: Does what it will, and then leaves you to reflect on the aftermath.

Anyway, check out The Brothers K.