We hold our breath and hope for Woolf or Wharton or Waugh—anything but Rand!—because a person’s favorite book is like a family member or a mantra. It’s an essential component of their life and can paint a pretty clear picture of their character.
[and, quoted by the above article:]
The contents of a woman’s bookcase had to at least be on par with her physical profile. Dating websites always give you pictures first, intel second, but some of us are turned on by brains, too. I’m not saying I could carry on a romance with a disembodied head who told awesome Goethe jokes. Nor is the possession of panties depicting Poe poetry an automatic win for a woman. But books have to be there.
I’m putting this here for danielle, because I think she’d get along pretty well with the dealbreaker author. and because she gets me when I confess to scoping out a guy’s bookshelf the next morning while he’s still asleep.
because I judge myself a little when his bookshelf isn’t all that awesome.
now I’m off to curl up around a cup of tea and the corrections, which I recently found at a bookstore on their $1 shelf. what a deal.