I actually prefer the term “book club” to “reading group.” After all, people could presumably get together as a reading group to skim billboards or peruse magazine articles or pore over cereal boxes, but a book club has a specific duty and intention: to read the book, to dig out its meaning, to slam it or praise it, but either way, to know more about it on the way out than you knew coming in. This, to me, is the essence of reading—both its pull and its purpose.

I’ve been in the same book club for twenty-nine years. Next year will be our 30th anniversary, and we’re pretty much intact, except for two members who we’ve lost. We’re like the communist party—the only way you get to leave is if you die. Not even then, really; We still invoke Anne and Donna’s presence when we need them to support our point of view.

This group has no leader; or else it has fifteen leaders. We call ourselves The Desperate Book Club, on account of how we were characterized, back in 1976 by Newcomers as "desperate for members." We never felt desperate, but we loved the sound of it.