Each year, my dear friend Beth and I get together a few days before Christmas to eat popcorn and pomegranates, drink cider and hot chocolate, talk in general and specific terms about the year that's past, and exchange gifts of the bookish variety. It's one of the loveliest nights of the year. But this year, Beth outdid herself in the gift department. Not only is she a talented writer, but she is something of a consummate artist. What this means is that she is the opposite of myself and can essentially turn her hand to any medium and produce something lovely. Artistic ability is not the only way in which we differ. She comes from a family of eleven children, while I am an only. We've enjoyed many a conversation dissecting the ways in which our family life and upbringing contributed to shaping us into who we are and how we look at the world. This year, she prefaced my gift by saying that she has always felt that books came into my life like siblings. So that we could g...