What self-respecting reader isn't a sucker for a great book about other great books? The End of Your Life Book Club is that much and more.

After Will Schwalbe’s 73-year-old mother was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer in 2007, he began accompanying her to many of her chemotherapy treatments and doctor’s appointments. Both book lovers—Schwalbe is the former editor-in-chief of Hyperion Books—they often passed the time by reading, talking about reading or both.

Their informal waiting-room book club endured for the remaining two years of her life, and led to this tender tribute to Schwalbe’s mother and also to the universal power of books to unite and heal. In it, he chronicles the many books that he and his mother, Mary Anne, read together, and how those books shaped their final years together.

“In our society, after someone dies, there’s a period where you’re almost supposed to stop talking about her,” Schwalbe says from his New York City apartment, where he lives with his longtime partner David. “It’s a great joy in life to talk about the people you love. My main impetus was to show how books can connect and bring people closer. My mother taught me so much and I wanted to share it.”

A small, gray-haired dynamo with super-sized energy and opinions, Mary Anne Schwalbe served as director of admissions at Harvard University and Radcliffe, and founding director of the Women’s Refugee Commission. She and her husband raised three voracious readers who, as Schwalbe recalls in the book, learned early on that reading was a priority: “On weekends, when Mom and Dad had settled into the living room, each with a stack of books, we had two options: We could sit and read, or we could disappear until mealtime.”

Sometimes, the books mother and son read were purely escapist (like P.G. Wodehouse and a 1949 beach read called Brat Farrar). That came in handy when Mary Anne was enduring what she called one of her “not great” days.

Other times, the books allowed them to broach tough topics. Joan Didion’s The Year of Magical Thinking helped Schwalbe understand the importance of acknowledging his mother’s pain. Wallace Stegner’s Crossing to Safety led to talks about what Schwalbe’s father would do once Mary Anne died. “It was a shorthand way to talk about my father,” Schwalbe says. “It was too painful to talk about head-on.”

But most of all, their impromptu book club of two allowed them to simply be, as mother and son.

“We weren’t a sick person and a well person,” Schwalbe says. “We were just two readers. That was a revelation.”

Certainly Schwalbe knows his books, having spent several years in publishing. He left Hyperion to start a cooking website, Cookstr.

“The best thing about leaving publishing is now I get to read,” Schwalbe laughs. No longer a slave to a stack of manuscripts, he finally gets to indulge in what he calls “reading promiscuously.” He and his mother also chose their books haphazardly, drifting between genres.

“We were given books; we knocked them over on a bookstore shelf and then bought them,” he says.

Schwalbe realized he wanted to write about their book club while his mother was still alive. She initially demurred when he told her his idea, but the next day began emailing him her thoughts, along with a list of books they’d read together. The rest of his family soon was on board, too.

“They encouraged me to write the book I wanted to write,” he says, even though that meant laying bare some incredibly personal experiences in order to paint the full picture of his family.

One of Schwalbe’s favorite outcomes of writing this book so far is that early copies have inspired people to start reading with their family. He got an email recently from a woman who has started a book club with her grandson, a teen who is reading The Hunger Games to her.

“That made me so happy,” he says. It’s a fitting tribute to a woman who died at 75 but left an enduring legacy.

“There are a lot of extraordinary people in this country and most don’t get an obituary in the New York Times,” Schwalbe says. “Mom was not somebody who was in the New York Times. She was one of those extraordinary, ordinary people.”

Employees of the hospitality industry—hotel clerks, restaurant workers, valet parkers—have a unique view of two things: how hotels operate and what hotel guests are really like. After 10 years in the business, in jobs ranging from front desk agent to housekeeping manager, Jacob Tomsky offers a peek behind the counter in an eye-opening, often hilarious new book, Heads in Beds: A Reckless Memoir of Hotels, Hustles, and So-Called Hospitality.

We checked in with Tomsky to find out more about annoying guests and the risks of drinking from mini-bar glasses.

Why did you decide to turn your experiences into a book?

There was a salient moment, as I stood still one afternoon in the center of my hotel’s lobby, watching everyone around me—people checking in, storing luggage, getting cabs, asking for upgrades, demanding to speak to a manager, disputing the bill, having their credit cards declined—and I realized I understood every single thing that was happening, all the nuances of every issue, in full detail. Then I realized that if more people had a broader perspective, some of these problems could be eliminated and we could all be happier and stop misunderstanding each other. And I was pretty sure I could make it funny, too.

Tell us three things you learned about human nature from working in hospitality.

One: People can be horrible to those they consider subservient. And as a hotel wishes to create a sense of home in a traveler, it can, in turn, make the guest believe that the hotel workers surrounding them are in fact servants in their own home. So some people, since they probably don’t get the chance to berate a servant in normal life, and love watching “Downton Abbey,” seem to relish the opportunity.

"Whenever possible, float through the room like a zero-gravity astronaut."

Two: Everyone is cheating on everybody.

Three: Money might shape the soul. Those who have a lot of it expect the world to bend around them like wind. People who have little of it are fully prepared for the world to bend around them like a door to the face. But rich or poor, those who are generous are usually deeply kind in other aspects. Those who are tight will rarely accept just an apology or give you the benefit of the doubt.

What’s the #1 thing guests should never touch in a hotel room?

Whenever possible, float through the room like a zero-gravity astronaut. Further, to avoid towel contact, allow yourself one hour to air dry after showering. That, or don’t worry about it. I would honestly bet that a hotel bathroom is cleaner than your own bathroom. In the book I do mention most housekeepers’ only option is to clean the mini-bar glasses with shampoo or even zesty lemon Pledge. Knowing this, what do I do when I’m thirsty and in need of a glass? Rinse it out in the sink and use it anyway. I try not to care.

What’s the worst “jerk move” a guest can make?

Blaming and yelling at Person A for Person B’s honest mistake—that’s an Olympic-quality jerk move. A guest who accuses a housekeeper of stealing her dog’s lame toy. A guest who accuses the front desk agent of deliberately canceling a reservation. But I am basically OK with jerk moves. Jerks, and their moves, are part of the job.

What are the most annoying words a guest can say to a front desk agent?

Well, maybe: “Come on! You must remember me!” If you have to ask then we certainly do not. But I will totally pretend to, if you’re really hellbent on me remembering. I will put on a screwy face and say, “Wait! I do remember you!” while hoping to god this charade ends quickly. Funniest part is, even if you force me to pretend I remember you, next time, I will still not remember you.

With your experience in the industry, do you still stay in hotels?

You kidding me? I love staying in hotels. If you’re tearing tickets at a movie theater all day, imagine how much you’d enjoy leaning back into a plush seat and letting a movie entertain your day away. Being surrounded by people on vacation means that when I get the opportunity to check in as a guest, I toss myself face first onto the soft bed, peer excitedly into the mini-bar, and strip down to rock that robe as soon as possible. After working in housekeeping, I couldn’t enter a hotel room without checking the cleanliness of the baseboards or dragging a finger for dust along the top ridge of the bed’s headboard. That was professional curiosity, but it’s out of my system now.

If you’re traveling for the holidays, which is worse: staying at a hotel or staying with family?

I suppose it depends on the family. But there is nothing better than pushing into your empty hotel room at the end of a long day with family, arming yourself with a candy bar and relaxing on top of the cool bedspread, watching crap on TV you’d never watch at home. But I’m lucky to have a wonderful family and when I’m in town I prefer to stay with them. It’s just a bring-your-own-candy situation.

Novelist Richard Russo had no doubt that he should write a book about the close and emotionally complicated relationship he had with his mother. The question was, should he publish it?

“I had to write the book because after my mother’s death she was very much in my waking thoughts and haunting my dreams as well, which suggested to me there was some unfinished business,” Russo says during a call that reaches him at the apartment he and his wife Barbara own in Boston. Most of the year the couple lives in Camden, Maine. Russo travels frequently for book tours, lectures and his scriptwriting work, and he’s found that it’s much easier to fly out of Boston. In fact, the morning following our conversation, he will fly from Boston to Helsinki to speak at opening ceremonies for the U.S. State Department’s new library there.

“My mother’s story seemed important both in terms of the private, intimate mother-son story and in terms of its broader cultural and political context,” Russo says. “She was part of the World War II generation and what happened to her is very much an American story and a story about the changes that were taking place in America as she grew into her maturity. That’s why this book is so much about Gloversville.”

In a beautifully evocative prologue to Elsewhere: A Memoir, Russo tells us that, in its prime, the upstate New York town of Glovers­ville produced 90 percent of the dress gloves sold in the world. Russo’s mother and father grew up there, married young and separated when he was a little boy. By the time Russo was a teenager, most of the glove-making work had been shipped overseas and the toxic residues of processing leather were left for the dwindling local population to deal with. “By the time I graduated from high school in 1967,” Russo writes, “you could have strafed Main Street with an automatic weapon without endangering a soul.”

Russo’s mother, as the book’s title implies, had conflicting feelings about her hometown. “What she thought about Gloversville depended on whether she was there or elsewhere,” Russo says. “It was the central dilemma of her life and in some ways it has been the central dilemma of my artistic life as well. There is the actual physical place, which fills me at times with the visceral loathing that I learned from my mother. Then there’s the Gloversville that’s been transformed into Mohawk [1986], Empire Falls [2002 Pulitzer Prize winner] and Thomaston [Bridge of Sighs, 2007]. In all those places I am free to love the fictional avatars of Gloversville with my whole heart and whole soul, and my mother’s opinion of the place doesn’t enter into it because those places are drawn from my imagination.”

Much of Russo’s fiction has explored his relationship with his mostly absent father. “All those charming, feckless men that turn up in my novels—from Sam Hall in The Risk Pool straight through to Max Roby in Empire Falls—are rooted in some way in my own father,” Russo says. “As I write in Elsewhere, I became closer to my father when I became of legal drinking age in New York, which at the time was 18.”

An only child, the young Russo had an extremely close relationship with his mother. In an early chapter of Elsewhere he vividly describes traveling with his mother on a vacation to Martha’s Vineyard, where he begins to perceive that, yes, he is her anchor but he is maybe also the millstone around her neck. Fiercely independent, Russo’s mother was also very needy. Even into adulthood, when Russo, his wife and two daughters moved about the country for his academic appointments, they brought his mother to live nearby. Russo and Barbara, a person of heroic patience and empathy, often joked mordantly that they were so bound to his mother that they “never went anywhere for longer than it took for her milk to spoil.” Through writing Elsewhere, Russo has come to believe that his mother suffered from a probably treatable mental disability in a time when such a disability was impossible to acknowledge.

“Writing Elsewhere did provide me with answers to the questions that I had posed to myself about my life and my mother’s life,” Russo says at the end of the phone call. “But in terms of closure, I still haven’t shaken that sense of betrayal and self-doubt because she’s not here to defend herself. I wanted to feel vindicated in having made the right choice to tell this story and I don’t quite feel that. . . . But after consulting with Barbara and my daughters it became clear to me that this book might actually help somebody else feel less alone in the world.”

Christa and Cara Parravani were identical twins, inseparable images of one another. They stare out from the cover of Her, Christa Parravani’s haunting new memoir, Cara looking down and Christa looking grimly into the camera. Cara died in 2006, not long after the photo was taken, a brutal rape having driven her to depression and a spiraling drug addiction.

Her is about Cara’s unraveling, but it is also a recollection of their complicated, intertwined life from birth: their unhappy parents, artistic talents, bad choices in men. Their parents broke up when they were very young, and on visits with their father, he would have them chant, “Mom is a witch. Mom should die. Mom is an evil bitch.”

Cara was a promising writer, and Christa a photographer. Their art tethered them as they went out into the world, rooming together as freshmen at Bard College, where they mixed their favorite children’s books in with textbooks on their dorm room shelf. They both got married too young, and struggled to share their twin with someone else. “His marriage to me was all she’d said it would be,” Parravani writes. “She called whenever she liked. She showed up whenever she liked. She still had me, like he never could.”

Then came the rape—although it was Cara who was assaulted, the event was a turning point in both their lives. Cara began using heroin and attempting suicide, checking in and out of rehab centers and mental hospitals. Her husband, unable to cope, let their home disintegrate. On a flight to one rehab stint, Cara used wine to wash down a drug for panic attacks, falling over in the baggage terminal and chipping a tooth.

Research shows that when a twin dies, the odds are high the other will follow shortly. Parravani writes about the numb years after her sister’s death, and how she slowly, slowly began rebuilding a life without her mirror image. She divorced and remarried, living now in Brooklyn with her husband, the writer Anthony Swofford, and their young daughter.

To write the story, Parravani, an accomplished photographer, relied on her own recollections and those of her mother, as well as journals Cara left behind. “One weekend at my mother’s house, I was trying to write the rape scene. I was failing miserably because I didn’t have the adequate words,” Parravani recalls. “I was looking through Cara’s closet for clothes to take home, and found a Tupperware container under her bed.”

“This book offers proof of my love, which she was constantly questioning.”

Inside was a notebook in which Cara recalled her rape on a warm October afternoon in a park, where she was walking her dog. When she came home from the attack, she told her husband not to touch her. “I’m evidence,” she said.

“I put my own loving care into it,” Parravani says of writing about the rape. “One of the things she wanted was for me to understand what happened to her that day. I did that for her by editing that piece.”

It was one episode in a harrowing writing process.

“It was incredibly difficult,” Parravani says. “I felt that, in order to write the best book I could, I needed to go into the hardest moments. Because it’s my first book, I was learning to write and I had to throw it away and relive it again and again. The magical thing was when I thought I couldn’t go on, Cara would have something to say [in her journals].”

Although Cara was the writer in the family, Parravani found solace in writing Her. Her husband, author of the Gulf War memoir Jarhead, encouraged her to write her story.

Being married to another writer is “truly, truly wonderful,” Parravani says. “It’s not necessarily that we’re ‘a writing team.’ It’s not the fantasy I had in high school. It’s just very nice for me to have Tony with me in my life at this time. He’s been a real partner to me in the truest sense of the word and prepared me for this.”

And what would her twin think of Her?

“I think at first Cara would be very jealous,” Parravani says with a laugh. “Aside from that petty, sisterly competition, I think she’d be surprised I was able to reflect on her that way. This book offers proof of my love, which she was constantly questioning. She hated herself. It was that simple. Her rape had eroded her self-confidence. She didn’t like the way she looked—physically and otherwise. It was a constant battle to convince Cara she was worthy.”

Parravani’s self-assured, unflinching writing belies her status as novice author. She writes candidly about life before and after her twin’s death.

“Her feet were bare, hidden beneath the closed lid of the coffin,” Parravani writes. “Her skin was taut and her rose rouge wouldn’t blend. Blush sat on the tops of her cheeks in powdery circles. The worry line on her forehead had been erased by the magic plumping effect of embalming fluid. She would have been pleased to know that death had made her younger.”

“I’ve been waiting a long time to be able to talk about this,” Parravani says. “Now that I’ve finished the book, in some ways I feel my active relationship with her has ended. I’m actually excited. I want people to know who my sister was. I want people to know my sister had a truly beautiful spirit. She was the kindest person I’ve ever known.”

Parravani has a photo of Cara hanging in her dining room, and talks about her often with her 16-month-old, Josephine. “I don’t want my daughter to be haunted by the idea of her mother’s sister,” she explains. “I happily point to Aunt Cara.”

At the age of 84, Maya Angelou doesn’t have to write anymore. She has global fame as a poet, author and performer, as well as a professorship in American Studies at Wake Forest University. She has won three Grammys and a Presidential Medal of Arts, published two cookbooks, directed movies and appeared on “Sesame Street.”

She wrote her latest memoir, Mom & Me & Mom, not because she has to, but because she feels an obligation to share what she knows.

“Every adult owes to every young person the truth,” Angelou says in an interview with BookPage from her home in Winston-Salem, North Carolina. “Not the facts—you can get the facts from various sources. The truth is how human beings feel—how a particular action makes a human being sad or happy—so that when young people encounter that particular feeling, they can say, oh, I know this feeling because someone else has been here before.”

In straightforward style, Mom & Me & Mom dives deeply into Angelou’s complicated relationship with her mother, Vivian Baxter Johnson, who owned gambling businesses and boarding houses in California and Nome, Alaska. Anyone who has read Angelou’s previous memoirs, including the searing I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings, knows that Angelou and her brother, Bailey, were sent as very young children to live with their grandmother in Stamps, Arkansas.

Those readers might also have been left with the impression that Vivian Baxter Johnson was not mother material. In her new book, Angelou paints a more complete picture of the woman she called “Lady,” fleshing out in her wholly singular voice the story of what happened when their grandmother decided in the early 1940s that it was time they rejoined their mother in California. The move was mainly for her 14-year-old brother’s sake. It was, Angelou wrote, “a dangerous age for a black boy in the segregated South.”

Angelou was a gangly teenager when she was sent to California to live with her pretty, petite mother.

They traveled by train to San Francisco, settling in with Lady and her husband, “a wondrous, very pleasant-looking man” named Clidell Jackson. Angelou was a gangly teenager, six feet tall with a deep voice, and at first she felt ill at ease around her pretty, petite mother, who favored “red lips and high heels.”

Over time, their relationship warmed, and despite her illicit business interests and occasional arrests, Lady had strong opinions about maintaining the family’s reputation. “You will learn that we do not lie, and we do not cheat, and we do laugh a lot,” she tells Maya and Bailey shortly after their arrival.

While still in high school, Angelou decided she wanted a job as a conductorette on a San Francisco streetcar. With headstrong determination, she planted herself in the company office for two weeks until a supervisor finally accepted her application. When she was hired, the newspapers hailed her as “the first American Negro to work on the railway.” Her mother drove her to the streetcar barn each day to start her 4 a.m. shift, and drove behind the streetcar until daylight, a pistol on the car seat next to her.

When Angelou became pregnant while still in high school, she was terrified to tell her mother. But Lady was accepting of her daughter’s pregnancy, telling her, “We—you and I—and this family are going to have a wonderful baby. That’s all there is to that.”

Angelou gave birth right after graduating and worked two jobs to support herself and her young son, Guy. Trying hard to forge her own path, she moved into a boarding house, and would not accept money or even a ride from her mother, but did let Lady take Guy twice a week. Angelou raised him with humor and a firm desire that he be a strong, self-reliant man who was always true to himself.

“We got on so wonderfully well. I’m grateful for that,” Angelou says. “I’ve always loved him but I was never in love with him. When he was 8 or 9, I told him there was a place inside him which had to remain inviolate. No mother, no father, no boyfriend, no girlfriend could go there. It was the place he would go when he met his maker.”

Angelou longed to do more than work as a fry cook and a clerk in a record shop—just as her mother knew she would, long before Angelou knew it herself. In the book, Angelou recalls the time her mother stopped her while they walked toward the streetcar. “Baby,” her mother told her, “I’ve been thinking and now I am sure. You are the greatest woman I’ve ever met.”

“I got onto the streetcar,” Angelou says. “I can even remember the time of day—the sun shone onto the seats. I thought, suppose she’s right. Because she was very intelligent and always said she was too mean to lie.”

Angelou began dancing and singing, eventually traveling to Europe as part of an African-American production of Porgy and Bess. Guilt-ridden at leaving Guy behind for several months, Angelou suffered a breakdown and sought the advice of her vocal coach, who sat her down with a pad of paper and a pencil, and told her to write her blessings. It was in that moment that she found her written voice.

At 84, Angelou shows few signs of slowing down, although her famously powerful voice trembles a bit.

She keeps up with pop culture. “I did watch the Grammys,” she says. “I liked it all. I must admit I fell asleep.”

She cooks. “Whatever I cook is the best I know how to cook,” she says. “I’m not a chef but I’m a very serious cook. I respect the ingredients and I respect the people who eat them. My mother used to say a cook’s greatest tools are hands and nose and ears.”

She still hosts an annual Black History Month radio show aired around the nation. This year, she featured interviews with Kofi Annan, Oprah Winfrey and Alicia Keys, among others.

“There are so many reasons young black men in particular—and young black women—don’t value themselves. One of the reasons is they don’t know enough about who they are and whose they are,” she says. “I try to pack the hour [of radio] I have. This year I’m using more contemporary people. I want to continue to talk about the achievements, wherever they came from.”

And she’s a loving grandmother. She speaks proudly of her grandson’s recent graduation from George Washington University with a master’s degree in international finance, and her desire to “be to my grandson what my grandmother was to me. And I am! He thinks I’m the bee’s knees.”

As for what her own mother—her biggest champion—would think of Mom & Me & Mom, Angelou is certain. “I think she’d love it,” she says. “It tells some of her truth. She deserved to have a real fine daughter.”

At a moment of profound loss—the death of her mother, depression, divorce and even a dangerous flirtation with heroin—25-year-old Cheryl Strayed set out to hike 1,100 miles of the Pacific Crest Trail through California and Oregon. Strayed captured both the physical toll and the hard-won healing process of her long-distance hike in her honest and affecting memoir Wild. 

Wild was one of BookPage’s Best Books of 2012, as well as a Readers’ Choice Best Book of 2012, and our reviewer Catherine Hollis called it "one of the best American memoirs to emerge in years." Wild, Strayed's second book following her debut novel Torch, is out this week in paperback.

The editors of BookPage caught up with Strayed to discuss the success of her memoir, readers’ responses to the book and more.

First things first: Wild was an incredible, well-reviewed, best-selling success. How has the response to Wild changed your life? How has it changed your approach to writing?

The response to Wild has been tremendously exciting, but it hasn’t changed my approach to writing. It’s still just me and the page, the way it’s always been. I’m still terrified and delighted by the act of writing, still uncertain of what’s ahead. The success [of] Wild has been thrilling, but it’s oddly outside of me. It’s what the world has made of my book, not what I did in the act of writing it, which would be unchanged, no matter how others responded to it. I will always be stunned by Wild’s reach—not just in the U.S., but all around the world. I’m grateful and amazed. The experience has made me feel more connected to more people from every walk of life because so many of them opened up to me and shared their stories with me after they read mine.

Right around the time that Wild was published, you also announced that you were the writer of the Dear Sugar column on The Rumpus. Did writing those columns inform your work on Wild in any way?

I’d written the first draft of Wild by the time I began writing the Dear Sugar column, and I was revising Wild when I was writing a bulk of the Dear Sugar columns that appear in my book Tiny Beautiful Things, so they come from the same place—the writer I am at this moment in my life—though I don’t think they directly inform each other. Having said that, some of the advice I give as Sugar is certainly rooted in things I learned on my long hike.

At the time of your hike, you took along books by William Faulkner, Flannery O'Connor and Adrienne Rich, rather than leaving the extra weight behind. Are those writers still important to you today? Which other writers have joined their pantheon?

"My greatest intention as a writer is to illuminate the human condition. You can’t do that while hiding behind the safety of your own cloak. So I write fearlessly, even when I’m afraid to do so."

Books were my saving grace out there. Reading offered me a much-needed escape from the monotony and solitude of the hike. Those books were worth the weight for sure. Plus, I didn’t carry them all the whole way. I carried the Adrienne Rich book with me the whole time, but I burned the Faulkner after reading it and I traded away the O’Connor book. Those writers are still important to me, alongside writers like Mary Gaitskill, Raymond Carver and Alice Munro, among others.

Wild is a deeply personal story. Did you have any qualms about revealing yourself in this way?

Yes, of course. Before Wild was published I was afraid of being condemned, misunderstood, disliked, mocked. Those things have all happened! But only by a handful of haters on the Internet. Far more often I’ve received understanding, kindness and love from readers. It’s tremendous, the number of people who say to me, “YES, I RELATE!” That's the power of telling your truth. You find that other people have that truth, too, even if they conceal it most of the time. I can’t imagine not revealing myself in my writing. The entire point of literature is revelation. My greatest intention as a writer is to illuminate the human condition. You can’t do that while hiding behind the safety of your own cloak. So I write fearlessly, even when I’m afraid to do so. It’s only brought me good things.

Many readers found your lack of planning for your hike infuriating. What would you like to tell those readers? 

I would tell them to lighten up. Wouldn’t life be miserable if we never learned anything the hard way? Were none of these infuriated readers ever young? But also, I’d say “lack of planning” isn’t an accurate criticism. I planned quite a lot. I bought all the gear (even though I carried too much of it), I prepared and organized and boxed all the food I’d eat for the entire summer and all the supplies I’d need. I figured out where and when to have those boxes mailed to me along a wilderness trail I’d never set foot on. I accurately calculated the amount of ground I could cover in a given time over three months. That’s quite an organizational feat, wouldn't you say?

So there were many things I planned well and did right. I think that gets overlooked by people who get worked up over my alleged lack of preparation. I took too much stuff. I didn’t train before I went on my hike. I didn’t know how to do certain things until I had to do them. I didn’t understand all the challenges before I faced them firsthand. But that’s pretty much it.

Most backpackers make these same mistakes when they begin. I don’t think there's anything wrong with that. I think the world would be a rather sad place if we only did things we were entirely prepared for. All the best things I’ve ever done were things I learned how to do along the way. Becoming a parent is a prime example. Most parents have very little idea about what to do with a baby before the baby’s in hand. You learn fast.

At what point on the hike did you feel your strongest? Your weakest?

The final day of my hike was profound. I felt strong, humble, grateful, fully alive. It’s one of the most unforgettable days in all of my life. I felt my weakest in those moments of total despair, when I wanted to give up because my feet hurt or when everything was miserable. I remember those moments and laugh now. That’s the best thing about that kind of suffering—the kind you have on a long-distance trail—it’s always funny later.??

Would you ever attempt to hike the PCT again?

Yes. Without hesitation.??

Do you see yourself having another adventure to compare with the one chronicled in Wild? (We’re not asking you to go deep-sea diving without a tank, just FYI.)

I do. I would love to. I have two young children, ages 7 and 8. I’m just waiting for them to be old enough so we can all go off on a grand adventure together.

You're still touring for Wild (we're looking forward to your Nashville stop!). How do you like having the chance to interact with readers face-to-face? 

It’s been the most gratifying aspect of this past year. Every event I do I meet people who tell me exactly how and why they felt moved by Wild or one of my other books. Sometimes they say what I wrote changed their lives. It feels like a gift every time.??

Any especially surprising or moving encounters with readers?

So many I cannot even count them anymore. I wish I had a camera strapped to my head at each book signing just so I could share that beauty with the world. It’s unbelievable and yet I totally believe it, too, because I know the power of a book. I know how it feels to be changed by words on a page. I’m honored that my words have done that for others.??

What's next for you?

Another book! A novel, I believe.

ALSO IN BOOKPAGE
Read our review of Wild.
Read about Wild in our April 2013 Book Clubs column.

With his powerful 6'7" frame and a severe case of Tourette’s syndrome, Hanagarne defies the stereotype of the timid librarian, turning his love of books into a rewarding career.

A librarian with Tourette’s sounds like an oxymoron. How did you choose your career?

Like a lot of librarians I know, I’m just not well-suited to do anything else. I chose this career because it combines all of the things I love about life into one vague job description. Also because I knew it would test me as far as the Tourette’s.

You are a hugely avid reader, thanks in large part to your mom. What did she do to turn you into such a bookworm?

She led by example. My mom loved books and reading, so her kids did as well. I never had a chance to be anything but a ­bookworm.

Can you briefly describe growing up with Tourette’s?

Twitching, tears, timidity and a few triumphs.

How did Tourette’s shape your 20s?

I let it steal most of my 20s. I let it take much of my self-worth, my ambition and my confidence from me. But there’s nothing that makes me sadder than the lost time. Which is one of the reasons why I’m pathologically productive at this point.

You write candidly about uncomfortable situations in the library. What is the public’s greatest misperception about libraries?

Probably that libraries are just buildings full of books.

Why are physical libraries so important to communities?

To answer that question, I’d ask you to go to your local library and watch everything that happens there for a couple of hours. Look at the schedule of activities. Watch children looking at picture books with their parents. Then picture everything that would be lost if the library were suddenly gone. That makes the case for me better than anything I could say.

You obviously love your job, even though it entails “attending community council meetings, monitoring the mentally ill, surrogate parenting, gang and drug activity tracking” and more. What makes working in a library so great?

There’s nothing I love as much as I love stories, and working in the library is one huge, unpredictable story. I’ve learned more about the highs and lows of humanity here than I have anywhere else, from both the books and the people. I think it would be a great location for an anthropology dissertation.

Strength training and breathing exercises enable you to anticipate and manage tics. What’s your coolest strength-training trick?

“Trick” would imply something anyone could do, if they just knew the secret. The “trick” is to get strong enough to do this stuff! I think that the coolest thing I can currently do is to pick up a 300-lb. stone and put it on my shoulder.

What message would you like to send to young people struggling with Tourette’s or other significant limitations?

Any time you spend thinking “I can’t believe this is happening” is ultimately wasted time. It’s easier said than done, but I believe real hope comes from moving from “I can’t believe this is happening” to “this is happening.” Because once you can accept that it’s happening, the logical next question is, “So what now?” If you can ask, you can improve your situation.

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