Page 44

Give me a gleaming title, one that is ripe for plucking by crows, worthy of large type, a display font, a spot on the New York Times Bestseller List. And I will give you my faith.

Titles are, simply, names. Bob. Betty. Joy. Lark. Sometimes, for fun, we may name our dog Dog or our cat Cat (or, for even more fun, our cat Dog). But usually we give it the name of our wish. We hope that our little Bobby becomes the man of decency that was Robert. We hope our little Joy is never burdened by sorrow. We wouldn’t think to call her Girl or Female Child #2 or Untitled--at least not on any legal documents.

But maybe you don’t love your words like you love your children.

As a writer, I get a thrill from finding the gem that will be my title. I know it has a big job. It must present the subject to my readers in a way that will make them want to read. It must shine on its own. But it must also gleam from a deeper meaning.

As a reader, something happens when I recognize that moment of inspiration for the title. It's as if the angels are singing. I’m reading along, minding my book's business, and all of a sudden it hits me that High Fidelity is not only about a guy who works at a record store, but it’s also about his undying devotion to his girlfriend. It hits me that Cold is more than just the name of the Mountain. It hits me that Middlesex is not just the street on which the hermaphrodite lived. And it hits me that The House of Sand and Fog, the house that overlooks the beach, is everything and nothing.

Perhaps the best example of this moment is on page 44 of the Cardinal Pocket edition of Jerzy Kozinski’s The Painted Bird. This book, about an orphaned gypsy boy wandering 1942 Europe, is a painful read. Rape, torture, and abuse are rampant in WWII Poland and Germany. And nowhere is safe for this dark-skinned child, who once hides in the bottom of a filthy latrine. The boy gets a job with Lekh, a man who captures birds and sells them at the market. On page 44, the boy describes one of his other jobs. Lekh chooses the strongest bird and mixes foul-smelling paints in vivid colors. He covers the bird’s breast and wings and head with rainbow hues. Then, the two go to the forest, and the boy is instructed to hold the bird and gently squeeze him until he flutters and attracts birds of his type. When enough birds are overhead, the boy lets the prisoner go. The painted bird soars high, finally free. He circles the flock, frantically trying to convince the other birds that he is one of them. First they are curious, but then they are repelled by the colors, and, one by one, the birds peck the painted bird until he falls from the sky. When Lekh and the boy find it, the colorful bird is usually dead.

The words that recount this horror are like daggers. You squint against the glint of the sharpened serifs. It is painful reading, to be sure. But once it is over and you have taken that breath and opened your eyes again, you realize that the boy is also a painted bird. His swarthy looks push him beyond recognition by his own flock, people who peck him to near death at every turn.

Not all of our titles can be page 44s. But, perhaps, if we give them enough thought, our titles can be windows into our own houses, whether they are made of sand and fog or bricks and sunshine or feathers.