Following on from yesterday's post, my last bookshop 'find' was the eagerly awaited Names for the Sea: Strangers in Iceland by Sarah Moss, and I spotted it, just unpacked and not yet shelved, in this excellent shop.
I'm reading it now and I keep on interrupting Mr. C. (who is engrossed in Antony Beevor) to tell him more fascinating and surprising facts and observations about Icelandic culture. He's far too polite to tell me to be quiet, but I suspect he wishes I would refrain from saying "I didn't know that ...." every few minutes.
But then, maybe that impulse to share is one mark of a good book. What you're reading is so interesting, so electrifying, so satisfying, that you feel the need to tell someone about it, much as you might do with food: "try some of this, it's delicious!"
The reverse is true too, of course, as a particularly bad book might engender harrumphs of displeasure or even violent acts - to the book, that is, not nearby readers - while something mediocre may well go unremarked.
Is this why so many of us blog about books or comment assiduously? Is 'the urge to tell' the driving force?