Why Books Make the Best Gifts

It begins with a box. You know the kind I mean—small, lightish, not terrifically wide and, because it’s wrapped in row of waving Santas or the smiling faces of cherubic snowmen, there’s no telling what’s inside. Sure, you can lift it, feel its heft, but still it remains nearly impossible to determine an ugly turtleneck from a paperback, another holiday hammer from a hardcover. You can shake it: does it slide? Does that imply a glossy hardback or a box of chocolates?

Years of carefully manipulated holiday advertising would have you believe that there’s such a thing as a perfect gift, and while I’m inclined to agree, I don’t think it’s the sterling silver men string over women’s necks, or that Lowe’s gift card or travel mug. It’s not the sweater made of red cashmere or even the set of keys to the Volvo sitting transcendent in the driveway.

For many of us, the best and most thoughtful gift is one that aims not to accessorize or embellish but to compliment who we are: a book. One that says I know you, and I like you, and here you go. Books! Glorious, glorious books! It’s not that we’re unsatisfied, of course, with routine purchases, but a book says so much more. It’s an investment in a relationship, an acknowledgment of your beloved’s interest, and, unlike jewelry or a piece of clothing, it never gets outdated or so last season. It makes a home on your bookshelf, where it will stay for years to come, reminding you each time you see it of the thoughtful person who put it there.

For me, it’s taken the shape of a collection of stories by my favorite writer, Amy Hempel. Given to me by an on-and-off-again boyfriend, it seemed indicative of a great level of observation: like me, he was a writer, and while we rarely talked directly about our work, he could identify the admiration I had for Hempel’s work. I insisted he write a note and the date inside. “So I always remember,” I think I said. I’ve also asked this of my writer friends who’ve published their first book. “Please,” I say, even when they roll their eyes or feign embarrassment. “Just write a little something.” It’s important that I remember—even when we’re far apart, when decades have passed and our lives are different—that time we shared tacos and pulled an all-nighter, sitting in our offices, fussing over sentences.

It’s like this, too, with my non-writer friends and family: they know how best to surprise me. Last Christmas, for example, in the midst of a self-identified existential crisis, my younger brother—a scientist by nature—gifted me a paperback that reminded me of how great the universe was, and how little, he joked, I mattered. Titled Death By Black Hole, by Neil deGrasse Tyson, the book served as a reminder that, at any moment, everything we know could be compressed into a speck of dust and expelled, forever, from the universe. “Oh my God, thanks,” I said, and meant it. When, months later, deGrasse Tyson made an appearance at Colgate University, where I was teaching at the time, I stood in line for over an hour to have him scribble into Space Chronicles: Facing The Ultimate Frontier. “Any chance you’d take a photo with me, pretending to get sucked into a black hole?” I asked, once I’d made my way to the front of the line. I knew what a great text it would make to my brother, studying for finals two states away. No, he laughed; though he was inspired by my dedication, if he took a photo with me, he’d have to do so with everyone. “And that,” he said, “is an awful lot of people.” “And a lot of black holes,” I agreed.

Finally, in what may be the sweetest and most inspiring gesture I’ve heard yet, a friend recently purchased a dozen copies of Chad Simpson’s Tell Everyone I Said Hi, the best book she’d read in years. She sent them as Christmas presents, as birthday presents, as just-because-we’re-friends gifts, eventually stowing them in a carryon when attending an annual writing conference, where she doled one out to me. “He’s such an amazing writer,” she said, “and I just want to spread the word.”

This is what good gifting means, or what it means if you love literature, if you underline sentences and dog-ear pages and make note of sentences that most compel you. This year, let’s all wish for an afternoon lull—after opening presents but before we carve the roast beast—to spend with a crackling fire and a blanket and our newest books.

Did you receive a book this year?