A good friend recently loaned me a book: “Scurvy,” by Stephen R. Bown. He thought I’d find it interesting. I thanked him and said, tongue buried in cheek, that I’d read it as soon as I got through “Smallpox,” “Leprosy” and “The Black Plague,” already on my nightstand.

I haven’t gotten to “Scurvy” yet. And it’s probably a good book. But the gift got me thinking about how I consciously (or not) select the books I choose to read. While prone to jumping back and forth between fiction and nonfiction, I’ve come to realize that my reading choices are far from rational. At heart, I’m an emotional reader, and I make my book choices accordingly.

Like many Americans stunned by Donald Trump’s improbable ascendancy to the highest office in the land, I chose to reread two novels I might never have returned to in more normal times – Margaret Atwood’s “The Handmaid’s Tale” and “1984” by George Orwell. Both these chilling modern classics had found their way back onto national best-seller lists after the presidential election. I was seeking literary insight into the mood and possible future of our nation.

More recently I read “Fear,” Bob Woodward’s stodgy Trump-dump. I read it because I was angry at our president, and I wanted to be as ticked off at him as I got when I read “Fire and Fury,” a more entertaining but more loosely sourced tome. Sadly, Mr. Woodward of Watergate fame disappointed. I was like the addict who, having had that first incredible high, was desperately seeking a repeat performance.

I quickly switched to fiction. Angry fiction. My reading choice was inspired by a recent movie. A dark, violent Western. Weaned on John Wayne horse operas and Clint Eastwood spaghetti Westerns and later, the blood-soaked tales of Cormac McCarthy, I was duly primed. A reviewer said the novel I’d chosen – “The Sisters Brothers” (great title) – was a lot like “True Grit,” another dark, violent Western novel I’d enjoyed.

I was beginning to see a pattern here, and not a particularly healthy one. What was I so angry about? Maybe I was incensed about getting old and feebleminded. Maybe because I had just lost my stepson in a terrible accident. Maybe because my country, to my mind, was careening down the highway to hell. Maybe because dark energy was inflating the universe toward a dark, cold, lifeless end.

I wasn’t always an angry reader. I read “The Fault in Our Stars” and blubbered. “The Life and Times of the Thunderbolt Kid” made me laugh on every page. “Educated” opened my eyes and my heart. “Walden” reconnected me to our rich New England heritage and bedrock principles.

A literary intervention was clearly needed. I wanted to read something inspiring, something uplifting, something funny. Of course! Now was the perfect time to read “Scurvy.” That should be good for a few laughs.