This book was dangerous for me to read. Might not be for someone else, but I’m terribly susceptible to the power of suggestion. And reading a book about candy, well, prompted me to, um, eat lots of candy. I dreamt about candy, craved candy, and, yes, bought candy. (I NEED to buy this candy; from the description in the book it’s absolutely heavenly. Haven’t yet, though.)

Granted, I’m also pregnant, but I think I would have fallen into what Steve Almond (he who wrote this book) calls a “freak spell”.

This was a perfectly delicious book, when it was on. When Almond was talking about candy, or candy manufacturing, or even the business of selling candy, it was fun and fascinating. Unfortunately, however (at least in my view), he spent much too much time digressing into self-analysis and self-pity and, well, self-digression. I’m sorry, but I really didn’t need to know that he smoked pot as a kid, or hung around with a less-than-intellectual crowd, or couldn’t keep a girlfriend, or (the real low-point) thought he had testicular cancer for a week or so. It was kind of distracting.

Still, there were personal tidbits that were funny — like how he used hard candy as “braces” because he figured it’d do the trick. Or the sheer poundage of candy he had squirreled away in his apartment. Or, even, his absolute worship of enrobing machines (those machines that drape chocolate over candy bars). Those added to the book. And, in the end (though the end was kind of lackluster), it was a good book to read.

It may just inspire you to go and buy some candy. (How about these? Or these?)