i'm done recommending books

the sun is shinning and i'm driving around town, and i really don't want to think that maybe all these books i'm recommending are way too autobiograpghical some how, trying to piece together all these stories i've been pushing on to people with explicit love could in fact betray some underlying defects, within me, or just too much detail.
the road for instance comes to mind and now i really get it, it's not about some mad max future america, dummy, it's about the fears of father hood, the fear of failing to raise these boys correctly, the dread of this future, the fear of future, this year anyway, with the economy all sad and treacherous, no body having a job, medical problems all the very real aspects of life i have always keep away from. thus the sci-fi dreaming, the space opera wishing, the crappy poetry submissions, the van living diaries, all very escapist, and then, the road pops up and perfect, it's just you and your family shoved into some world you can't even see, let alone understand, what is this, money?
we've always been the people with enough to live, to have a home to have cars, but not much more and not really wanting more.
but what do these books say to people of who we are, you give me a book about horrible childhoods, i give you a book to read about paris in the 1930's, do i think i'm Henry Miller? do i think, i'm Micky Spillane, did i buy an handgun? what do books really mean, when it comes down to the psychology of recommendation's, maybe none of us should have ever read any books, maybe we should all just live,
in capsules of pure white and silver, forever, that's another thing about sci-fi that really pleases me, no one ever reads or listens to music, goes to see bands or watches television in the future, they all seem very busy saving their own lives or others in big elaborate road novels, the road being outer space the cars being intelligent space craft, no body goes to bars to find out who killed the blonde who stumbled into you, in the rain soaked morning, when you were just out walking, trying to piece together a meaningless life.