Perhaps it's because I've now hit the elderly side of 25, or my new gig as a dating columnist, but lately I've sensed a disproportionate degree of interest in my failure to secure an ideal husband. After the most recent cousin's wedding, at which an unsettling number of relatives exclaimed, "What, no boyfriend? A nice girl like you? Here, you must take the number of my neighbour/friend's cousin/gastroenterologist. You'll love him!" I did begin to wonder if, perhaps, I am being too picky - or, as I prefer to describe it, "discerning".
But then again, maybe not: you have to be careful about these things. And while other women may be able to fall back on the classic mainstays of nationality or religion when discriminating between potential suitors, as the dual-passported daughter of an interfaith couple, I've had to find less traditional ways to discriminate. And that is why, when making these important decisions, I turn to Don DeLillo.
You see, I could never learn to love a man who didn't appreciate White Noise, DeLillo's masterful satire and my hands-down all-time favourite book. It wouldn't need to be my possible boyfriend's favourite book, too, but if he didn't also at least begin to understand the absolute brilliance DeLillo's combination of the grotesque, hilarious, and romantic in his odd but prescient apocalyptic vision of America, I just don't think that my putative partner and I could ever really be soulmates.
The White Noise factor creates an interesting romantic quandary. Other women may struggle to decide when they should introduce their new boyfriend to their parents or bring him as a date to the office Christmas party. I fret about how long I should wait before I can expose my new gentleman friend to Babette and Jack Gladney, the couple at the centre of the book who lovingly deconstruct the syntax of smutty books and fight over who will have the privilege of dying first and not being left behind to mourn. It's a quirky story, after all, and if I foist it upon someone too early on he might take my consuming passion for it to be the sign of a wildly eccentric personality, which can be off-putting. "This is your favourite book?" one fellow said with a raised eyebrow when he'd finished it, which, in retrospect, may explain why he stopped calling.
Taking White Noise along on the first date is, I have come to realise, is much too keen. On the other hand, however, if I leave it too late and the man in question declares that he can't be bothered to read past the first three chapters of the book (or indicates a reluctance to draft a short essay discussing the key metaphors), then I will have no choice but to utter that clichéd phrase: "It's not you. It's Don DeLillo."
Some people don't take this well; it's been suggested that I'm a little narrow-minded. But I draw comfort from the fact that I am quite sure that I am not alone in this particular quirk: really loving a book is such a visceral experience, one that is not dissimilar to loving a person. It's very hard, and maybe a bit sad, to feel that strongly about something and not have your partner get what you're waxing lyrically about.
There's no shame, I don't think, in holding out for someone who understands one's literary tastes: relationships may be temporary, but books - really good books, the books you really love - stay part of your life a good deal longer. So, go on then: which books are your romantic dealbreakers?
