Guilt and gifts

I am convinced that plants and books are the most guilt-ridden gifts, but for opposite reasons. With a plant, you have to write the thank-you letter quickly, before the plant dies (as it will quickly, if you are like me) so that you can describe in the letter how lovely it is while you can still remember it. Otherwise, you feel guilty both for the death of the plant and for your vague, schmaltzy description of it.

The book is the inverse. With a book, you have to delay your answer until you have read it. The thing sits upon the shelf, making you aware both of your clodish insensitivity in not thanking its sender and in your incapability to write a meaningful letter including details from the book. Months pass and your cheery little note whithers like a dying plant until it has been almost a full year since whatever occasion prompted the book, and you open your mailbox with dread, looking for a sarcastic note inquiring whether your postman is still living and perhaps his widow might appreciate this year's gift more than you.