The largest bookstore in the world rests on a full city block about ten minutes from my house. Powell’s claims an inventory of four million books and purchases 3000 books daily. Since today is Mother’s Day, I decided to do exactly what I wanted and spend the morning at the most enchanted place I can imagine: the new-release/best-seller/staff-picks section on the main floor. My original plan was to find a gift for a friend who shares my literary taste — last year I sent her The Goldfinch. After reading the summary and again trusting Powell’s staff-picks, I decided on The Enchanted. I’m often drawn to other-writer comments in the praise section, especially when they use the word riveting like Donald Ray Pollock did for this book. Another said Rene Denfeld was a genius, and I appreciated the praise stopping short of brilliant — currently overused terminology for certain anorexic Hollywood starlets. Since the story’s protagonist is on death row, I decided to read the book prior to sending it off in case its darkness is pitchingly so. Immediately hooked, I stopped reading only because I needed to get to the grocery store. There’s already been a scene suggesting we might be in the same category as Ruby or We Need to Talk About Kevin, but my friend shares my taste for deliciously dark literary art and will appreciate this story.

I left Powell’s with four books. In addition to The Enchanted, I picked up 10% Happier, by Dan Harris; Small Victories, by Anne Lamott; and A God in Ruins, by Kate Atkinson. According to their jackets, Harris has found a way to tame the voice in his head; Lamott confirms again that we can be both irreverent and wise; and Atkinson will continue the story of a character I met in an earlier work who lives a future he never expected (perfect for a reader on her third marriage). The four will join the stack already on my bedside table: My Brilliant Friend; Your Dog is Your Mirror; and Teffi’s Subtly Worded (passing up something that interests me is not one of my strong points).

Once on a rainy walk, I found a soggy book in the curb that I couldn’t resist turning over: Love is Hell.

That, I left.