Browsing in a bookstore with my lurky friend the other day, I picked up a book (I can't even remember which one) and recommended it to her. "Oh!" I said, "This one's good."
She scanned the jacket flap and placed it back on the shelf. "Nope. Can't read it. I don't do dead babies."
Hmm. I get that. Although dead babies are okay by me (in FICTION. Fiction!) as with all sorts of violent acts. Rapes, murders, beheadings (I'm looking at you, Anne Boleyn) -- all good. It's not like I seek out gore, but I can deal with it. I read a lot of Joyce Carol Oates, so yeah. She goes there.
Still, there are probably some places where JCO won't go. I don't know this for certain. It's not like we're buds. But I can imagine. Even I, reader of savage and dispicable acts, have my limits.
Here's one: I don't do 9/11. I'm sure there are a great many wonderful books written about the human drama in the aftermath, but...no. Uh-uh. It's still too raw, and frankly, I don't think I'll ever be able to go there. While I didn't personally see the towers go down (I live uptown), just living in the city in the weeks that followed was quite enough for me, thanks. No need to revisit.
My youngest daughter likes animal books, but she doesn't do dead dogs. No Old Yeller, no Where the Red Fern Grows. Nosireebob. Dead people? Sure! Just not dogs.
How about you? Where won't you go?