English to French Art/Literary Poetry & Literature

There was dust on the dashboard, and a large collection of cups and wrappers from various snacks and meals around her feet. Jocelyn hadn't offered to drive her own car, because it had been five whole days since she'd vacuumed it. The passenger-side window was streaked with dog spit and nose prints. She hadn't wanted to ask Grigg, all dressed up as he would be, to deal with dog hair and dirt. Evidently he'd had no similar compunction.
"Say1," Grigg said. They'd made it onto the freeway, and the tractor disappeared behind them in a stink of exhaust. Sacramento had some of the worst air quality in the country.
Grigg was driving exactly the legal limit; Jocelyn could see the speedometer. Daniel was the only other driver she knew who did that. In the whole world. "Say," Grigg repeated. "Did you ever read those books I bought for you? The Le Guins2?"
"Not yet." JOCELYN FELT A TINY STING OF CONSCIENCE. Feeling guilty did not improve her mood. Book-giving became a pushy, intrusive action when it was followed by "So how did you like those books?" Jocelyn gave many, many books away and never asked whether anyone had liked them.
Why should she apologize over not reading two books she'd never asked for? She didn't have to actually read science fiction to know what she thought of it. She'd seen Star Wars. When would Grigg get off her case about those damn books?
(Karen Joy Fowler, The Jane Austen Book Club.)