Curiously enough, one cannot read a book: one can only reread it. A good reader, a major reader, an active and creative reader is a rereader. -- Vladimir Nabokov, in Strong Opinions --
I wonder if I am a very good reader. Admittedly, there have to be way worse ones. Readers than me. Oh, hell yeah. I mean, I do give it a good try, I think. I try to thoughtfully read.
But if ol' Vladimir's words, above, are even half as ex cathedra as they seem -- yeah, I am a poor reader. I just read and move on. Read and move on. Read and move on. I have much the same approach to eating, I guess. My relationship with food is not at all about lengthy contemplation. It's morseo about, "Hey, that plate was full a minute ago!" And not only this. I'm not talking about SPEED! I'm moreso, after reading [and rereading] the Nabokov quote, thinking about my entire thought process. My thoughts. I eat a great meal, and my mind is already on the next platter of grub! I read a great book and........ well, you get the picture, right? About "food" I am no connoisseur. At least with books, I can take some comfort in feeling that I am somewhat selective in what I ingest. But, I seldom reread. Am I a good reader? A major reader? An active and creative reader?
<--In her [very] recently released book, Changing My Mind: Occasional Essays, novelist Zadie Smith says, "The novels we know best have an architecture. Not only a door going in and another leading out, but rooms, hallways, stairs, little gardens front and back, trapdoors, hidden passageways, etc. It's a fortunate rereader who knows half a dozen novels this way in their lifetime." Again, a provocative statement. To follow through with my food analogy, hmmm... I consider the following: What if I did not [pardon me] umm........ DIGEST all the food I ate? Just kept on cramming it in to my haggis-holder there! Believe me, it's a lot of grub! On a daily basis. I'd probably explode. I don't joke around about two things: Food and Books. It seems to me that both of these incredibly astute authors are suggesting here that rereading is the elan vital of the truly literate reader. With Zadie Smith's statement I would seriously have to ask myself..... "Which novels have I read and reread?" I know that the novel that launched me into a life of literature-appreciation was Thomas Hardy's Tess of the D'Urbervilles. Did I reread it? Yes. And my favorite novel? Anna Karenina. Did I reread it? Yes. But most of the books I read? No. I read. I move on. I DEVOUR! I devour another. I'm gluttonous.
If I were to address Zadie and/or Vladimir 100% honestly, I would say that for me, personally, the novel I have reread the most -- the novel that probably defines my interests the most, the novel, the architecture of which,l I am most familiar -- is C.S. Lewis's wonderful 1956 book, Till We Have Faces. I have read it at least four or five times, and I know I will read it again. It is the myth of Cupid and Psyche, retold. An amazing book about the distinction between pure and profane love.
Interestingly enough, C.S. Lewis himself was a man who also valued the art of rereading. In 1947, he said, "An unliterary man may be defined as one who reads books once only... The re-reader is looking not for actual surprises (which can come only once) but for a certain surprisingness. The point has often been misunderstood... In the only sense that matters the surprise works as well the twentieth time as the first. It is the quality of unexpectedness, not the fact that delights us. It is even better the second time... in literature. We do not enjoy a story fully at the first reading. Not till the curiosity, the sheer narrative lust, has been given its sop and laid asleep, are we at leisure to savour the real beauties. Till then, it is like wasting great wine on a ravenous natural thirst which merely wants cold wetness. The children understand this well when they ask for the same story over and over again, and in the same words. They want to have again the 'surprise' of discovering that what seemed like Little-Red-Riding-Hood's grandmother is really the wolf. It is better when you know it is coming: free from the shock of actual surprise you can attend better to the intrinsic surprisingness of the peripeteia."
Narrative lust. I like that. The whole quotation makes perfect sense. Everything right up until that last word, written in Klingon.
I personally own FIVE separate copies of Till We Have Faces. Hey! No one keeps just one frozen hamburger in the freezer! *********
Well folks, it's happened again. This time at Heathrow Airport. A pilot was pulled off a United Airlines jet before take-off because he was drunk. Why is this happening? Here's how drunk the guy was. He was pulled off a United jet, but he was a Delta pilot. That's a bad sign. -- Jay Leno --
First lady Michelle Obama was on Sesame Street today showing children how to plant their own healthy vegetable gardens. Then the kids said, "Forget the vegetables," and they barbecued Big Bird. -- Conan O'Brien --
There’s always been this hunger for fantasy. The world has always been awful, the world’s always sucked, mostly because of the things people do to one another. All you have to do is read the Bible. Just read Job. . . A mind is blown when something you always feared but knew to be impossible turns out to be true; when the world turns out far vaster, far more marvelous or malevolent than you ever dreamed; when you get proof that everything is connected to everything else, that everything you know is wrong, that you are both the center of the universe and a tiny speck sailing off its nethermost edge. -- Micahel Chabon --
There you are, washing the egg-flipper. No. Not somewhere else, but right here, same world I inhabit. Same walls. Same bills. Same toilets. Same children.
A few strands of your hair fall forward. Others remain tied. Rinsed forks clatter like castanets, defying anything domestic. Strutting a fandango -- you aren't here.
I lean in closer to hear you humming, nearly falling in the sand at your feet. I know that song goddammit -- a piece of sunset made you squint. And I remembered.
It is always exhilarating to "discover" an author one has not read before. I've mentioned this concept of "discovery" before, in my bloggations. The author was doing perfectly fine long before I came along to "discover" him or her. By discovery though, I guess I mean -- you know how there are certain books that you have seen time and again, and something about the book has intrigued you, but you just never picked it up? Well, I finally "discovered" Michael Chabon. Have wanted to read this book, The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier and Clay for a long while now. And recently I snagged this book for next-to-nothing at a used book sale. In one morning [I priced it all out] I managed to nab almost a half-a-thousand dollars worth of books......... for $57.00. Gotta love those used book sales!
I am only one-sixth into Chabon's world here, but I think I am involved enough in the story to say this thing is going to be a dandy worthwhile adventure. Tonight at my local Starbucks, certain portions of the novel had me spewing coffee through several of my facial orifices.
It's New York, in 1939. Two Jewish yoots [<-- as Joe Pecci might say]... Joe Kavalier and Sammy Clay, are trying to come up with an innovative new comic book character. Something to top this upstart Superman fellow, who has every kid in America hurling their hard-earned dimes at whoever will provide them with the latest installment. [Apparently, at this early stage in his career, Superman did not yet fly, he just jumped real good. His initial reaction to free-basing kryptonite, perhaps?] Anyhoo, Joe and Sammy are fledgling artists with a few connections to the publishing world, and they have a deadline. They must come up with a plausible, yet incredible new superhero... They laughed. Joe stopped laughing. "I think we have to be serious," he said. "You're right. The Lion. I don't know. Lions are lazy. How about the Tiger. Tigerman. No, no. Tigers are killers. Shit. Let's see." [They go through a panoply of potential animal-based super heroes, even Mandrill-Man -- "with his multicolored wonder ass that he used to bedazzle opponents."] You can hear the synapses firing, as they walk down 25th Street -- you can smell the brain cells burning -- "He turns into ice. He makes the ice everywhere." "Crushed or cubes?" "Not good?" Sammy shook his head. "Ice," he said. "I don't see a lot of stories in ice." "He turns into electricity?" Joe tried. "He turns into acid?" "He turns into gravy. He turns into an enormous hat. Look, stop. Stop. Just stop." [They stop] It dawns on Sammy [he is the brains of this dynamic duo...] it dawns on him that, when it comes to super hero creation, the "why" is more important than the "what". [They resume walking...] "How? is not the question. What? is not the question," Sammy said. "The question is why." The question is why." "Why," Joe repeated. "Why is he doing it?" "Doing what?" "Dressing up like a monkey or an ice cube or a can of fucking corn."
Right about then an impressive display of nostril-forced Grande Americano created an eerie mist around me and my table. I felt it was time to mop things up and move on. Time to come home here and write about this wonderful book that has already proven to be worth more than it's full price, never mind the two measly dollars I doled out for it.
Hmmmm.... if I were a Super Hero -- what would my special power be? Super-Miser! Unwilling to pay anything more than 1/10th of the bar-coded price! IN A SINGLE BOUND!
If any ambitious man have a fancy to revolutionize, at one effort, the universal world of human thought, human opinion, and human sentiment, the opportunity is his own -- the road to immortal renown lies straight, open, unencumbered before him. All that he has to do is write and publish a very little book. Its title should be simple -- a few plain words -- "My Heart Laid Bare." But this little book must be true to its title. No man dare write it. No man could write it, even if he dared. The paper would shrivel and blaze at every touch of the fiery pen. -- Edgar Allen Poe, 1848 --
Everyone's talking about the election results in Maine. They voted for medical marijuana, but against gay marriage. I think voters were worried that guys would get so high they'd accidentally marry each other. -- Craig Ferguson --
Al Gore, winner of the Nobel Prize, is on the show. I wish he were here last night. I could have used the help. During the show, the climate went from bad to worse. -- David Letterman --
Truthfully, I have never really been a fan of Michael Jackson. Until last night. I went to see this movie. Now I want ALL of his music on my iTunes! If "This Is It" is playing anywhere near you, go see it. Seriously. It is incredible. You will see a side of Michael Jackson you did not know existed. And if, unlike me, you already knew it existed -- well you probably saw This Is It on opening night. Last night convinced me, he truly was The King of Pop. Not was. IS.
Not just the clanging of the dinner bell. Difficult as this is to forget. Or her shrill call. The walk-in-and-wander food pantry. None of this brings her back as clearly to me as that squint she had, sun or no. Nothing to do with light.
That narrowing of the eyes meant laughter, sadness, punishment, linoleum repairs, change the channel, chicken heads to be cut off, storm tomorrow, I had too many children, or most of all, most of all -- open yours as much as you can, while you can.
I've been sick all day. I think I am coming down with the H1N1 swine-thing, actually. My first hint was that my nostrils all of a sudden are sort of upturned. Very Kevin Bacon-ish. But still, between sneezing and puking I have had occasion to do some of my near-useless musing about things that no other human beings think about, ever. I happened to hear Ella Fitzgerald singing a Christmas song. 'Tis the season! I forget the song, honestly -- what completely intrigued me though, was the vibrato at the end of every line. What kind of medical problem is this?
Now, let's face it, Ella can [could] sing, I'm not disputing that. I'll never forget this one interview with Amanda Marshall [and I somewhat worship Amanda] where she cited Ella as her absolute vocal mentor and idol. I think that part of Ella Fitzgerald's fame has to do with the youthfulness of her voice. It never ever got old. But the vibrato! It makes my eyelids flutter.
And today, for the first time ever, I asked my favorite question -- WHY -- and directed it at the phenomenon of vibrato. Not only why do singers do it. But why do we WANT them to do it? Because we must want it, right? Or else they wouldn't do it. What I mean is, statistically speaking, we must LIKE vibrato.
Well, I just want to go on record here and say that I myself do not like it. I find it highly superfluous. This is not a natural throatal reaction to the action of singing. It is contrived. It is -- I don't know, just one of those human things that have evolved God-knows-why!
She was singing away, and I closed my eyes. Instantly I envisioned a peacock. Have you ever watched a male peacock when they are really strutting their stuff? I have. It's wild. They fan out that magnificent tail...... they wait a bit, and then, the sort of -- shake it up! Rattle the feathers. They rattle that thing. They SHAKE that peacock booty!
It's the equivalent of the vibrato idea. The peacock throws that tail out there, and then probably.... just at the right moment contracts a peacock-sphincter muscle and it's like.... "OK, my tail was all fanned out but check this out Oh-my-God now it is wicked sh-aaaaa-aaaaa-kkkkk-ing like crazy!" [The hyphenated stuff, that's the peacock-sphincter tightening up right there.]
It's like Ella Fitzgerald, honest to God. OK, it's all coming back to me now...... Let It Snow! "Let it snow let it snow, let it snoowwwwwwowwwwowwoww!" Yeesh. A few more verses of that and all my fillings would have popped out. I guess it all hearkens back to a time when we really had to shake things up to attract a mate?
The thing about a story is that you dream it as you tell it, hoping that others might then dream along with you, and in this way memory and imagination and language combine to make spirits in the head. -- Tim O'Brien, in The Things They Carried --
Last night I finished this amazing book. An incredibly moving, significant novel. It is phenomenally good. ClickHERE.
Every city has a sex and an age which have nothing to do with demography. Rome is feminine. So is Odessa. London is a teenager, an urchin, and, in this, hasn't changed since the time of Dickens. Paris, I believe, is a man in his twenties in love with an older woman. -- John Berger --
So I was walking down the street. I've walked down this street [Dalhousie Street] perhaps 18 million times. Give or take a few hundred. And there is this one building I really like, and I'm not sure why. It is directly across from my own apartment building, where I live. You know you can walk past a building 18 million times and never once stop to wonder how long it's been there. But the other day I wondered. I looked up and saw at the very top of the thing, a date. 1899. I stopped and stared until I was dizzy. 1899? That's like PRIOR TO ----- the last century. My own building where I live, where I am typing this from, was built in the early 1970's. A mere YOUNGSTER compared to this venerable brown brick building across the park. This 1899 building WATCHED my building grow up! But as I stood there and looked up I did some contextualizing. My spell-checker warns me that this is not a word, but I don't care. I am going to use it anyway, because it is exactly what I am doing. I am contextualizing.
My father was born in 1926. And, while he lived, he loved to tell me stories about his childhood... and so I am standing here on the corner of Dalhousie and Cathcart, looking up, and I'm thinking -- before even one of my father's stories existed, this building was standing here on this corner, being a building. I think that is so neat. My father's father was born somewhere in Austria in 1897. So -- when my paternal grandfather was 2 years old, this building was busy being a building. The first tenants were all exited about renting the space. Prime real estate. Yonder, where my building now stands -- a crow was perhaps flying right through the very space where I now sit typing by candlelight in my penthouse suite. [Ooops. Spell-check again. Apparently "penthouse" is some sort of magazine!] But -- I think you get my drift right?
Thomas Hardy was just then taking pen in hand, to write The Darkling Thrush. My father's every story was decades distant. His father was still not proficient with the toilet! Hell, the toilet itself was not invented yet! And this building, this one right here.... was...... was --
So I walked across the street, and I touched a few of the lower bricks. Spoke to them. Proportionally speaking, I spoke to a few of the bricks between the ankle and knee of this building. And I said, "Remember me, building." And I hugged that building that will be standing, right here, long after I am permanently horizontal.
There should be a law, I thought. If you support a war, if you think it's worth the price, that's fine, but you have to put your own precious fluids on the line. You have to head for the front and hook up with an infantry unit and help spill the blood. And you have to bring along your wife, or your kids, or your lover. A law, I thought. -- Tim O'Brien, in The Things They Carried --
In honor of Halloween I am reading a scary book, The Haunting of Hill House by Shirley Jackson. So far there have been no witches in the book, but for some reason [maybe it is the combination of having recently read the life of Einstein]... all morning long I’ve had one question rolling around in my head and it simply will not let me alone. It involves witches and gravity. If for no other reason than to exorcise the quandary of it all, I will here elucidate my current thoughts on the matter. The question is this: What happens when a witch falls off her flying broom?
At first glance this may seem like merely a whimsical question concocted for an extremely brief moment of possible hilarity, a question for which no real answer is intended or expected. But no. Nothing of the sort is going on. I don’t even think the question is very funny, to be honest! I am asking it in all earnestness and want to submit it to the due process of valid interrogation.
Let us imagine that tonight, this very Hallowe’en night, you are pretty much minding your own business, doing what you usually do on the evening of October 31st, namely, answering the door for all the hobgoblins and Frankensteins that are out trick or treating. So... a small flock of trick-or-treaters have just arrived on your doorstep and are holding forth their pillowcases and plastic pumpkins in hopes that you do not give them something that falls into either one of the two most dreaded categories: anti-Hallowe’en religious propaganda and fruit. In our current scenario, you have flicked the porch light on to see a small assemblage of amateur ghouls and vampires and whatnot else. You turn to get more handfuls of candy from the big bowl in the hallway. Just as you turn back towards the kids, the witch flies by. A real one though. There she is, just over their heads and a few blocks distant. You freeze. You pee your pants a bit. The kids see the instant terror on your face. Just as they all turn to see what is causing such concern, the witch lets out a raucous cackle and kicks her heels. The broom lurches forward in a wild spurt of speed and she topples backwards. Boots over nose-wart, she falls from the broom. Thinking you’ve staged the event, the kids turn back towards you and applaud.
But what happens next? There are only a limited number of possibilities to consider, and I intend to consider them. Here is the real issue: At what point, and to what degree, does normal gravity over-ride the powers of witchery? Does the witch plummet to the ground, in which case all of the magical power of flight must be supposed to reside in the broom, which, (one would think), would still be buzzing around in some sort of blindly erratic witchless flight path in the sky until it crashed into something? Or when the witch falls, does the broom fall also? Simultaneously? In other words, is the broom merely a normal broom, vested with aeronautic power only when the hands of the witch are upon it? Can it fly at all, without the witch at the helm? Herein lies a problem though --> If they BOTH fall, then it would seem to me that both are subject to an outside power that has simultaneously failed them both. As though a spell were suddenly broken. Is witchery subject to gravity? The fact that she was flying around at all (prior to falling off) would seem to answer that question “No.” But if, upon falling from the broom, she merely floats in the air and does not plummet, we must wonder what the hell she needs the broom for in the first place! Perhaps for greater speed?
Let’s say she does fall, like a screaming bag of rocks and hair! Well, if the witch has her own magical powers which she can conjure at will, certainly she would conjure some quickly, to save herself prior to hitting the ground. However, if she in fact does this in this instance, then one must inquire once again as to the purpose of the broom in the first place. If she is now sort of still flying (as it were)... broomless, prior to hitting the ground, surely she could have flown in this fashion earlier, when she initially set out from her lair, and prior to the accident which we have observed. If the role of the broom is merely to provide something to sit on while in flight, might the witch not have been better off to select one of those plush La-Z-Boy recliners, with the pump-action footrest thingy on the side there? Wouldn’t she rather fly around town in that? I know I would. Perhaps recliners and sofas do not steer as well as a broom? Is maneuverability the thing? [I am not being sarcastic, and in no way am I ridiculing the principles of witch-flight... I really and sincerely would like to come to some conclusions in these matters....] Would a workable formula be something like F = bw2? [Flight = broom X witch, both?]
Here is yet another scenario which is entirely possible. As the witch accidentally falls from her broom, it swoops down quickly and catches her up before she reaches the ground. Hmmmmm. This is not a satisfactory answer for me. It seems too cartoonish. Remember, we are talking about a real Hallowe’en witch here, not some trumped up thing. Anyone who believes this latter scenario [the Swooping-Broom Theory] to be a valid possibility, probably also believes that WWF wrestling on TV is real.
At any rate, I think that I have exhausted at least a few of the possibilities.... I feel a lot better for just having talked it out a bit, you know? Thanks for hearing me out. There are inherent problems in specifics, related to witchflight and sudden effects of gravitational pull. There is just no way around it. Like other things in life, there are no easy answers. For now, until some of you may come up with better suggestions, I am going to maintain that there are only two possible (mutually contradictory) conclusions I can theoretically consider as being currently tenable. They are this: 1) Witchflight is a myth. Witches exist, but do not fly on brooms. 2)Witchflight is real. Witches exist and fly on brooms, but never ever fall from them.
The great enemy of clear language is insincerity. When there is a gap between one’s real and one’s declared aims, one turns as it were instinctively to long words and exhausted idioms, like a cuttlefish spurting out ink. -- George Orwell, in Politics and the English Language --
I listen to talk-radio more than I listen to music radio. The main reason is because I hate repetition. I hate when the latest hits get played right into the ground over the course of a workday. Repitition irks me! <-- Unless what is being repeated is Nelly Furtado. Whoa Nelly! So there is this new song by James Morrison and it's called Broken Strings. I could listen to this song a million times and still love it because it is just so well-written, well-produced, and [like Nelly] flawlessly put together. I think it is one of the best duets I have heard in a long long time. The perfect blend of voices. This James Morrison guy is fantastic, but I think the song just goes crazy as soon as Nelly gets in there at about 1 minute and 35 seconds. It just takes off from there and pretty much goes into orbit. Once in a blue moon a song like this comes along and restores my faith in good music. To hear it for yourself, CLICK on Nelly, above! Turn it up good and loud! Whoa Nelly! *********
A spirit is manifest in the laws of the universe -- a spirit vastly superior to that of man, and one in the face of which we with our modest powers must feel humble. In this way the pursuit of science leads to a religious feeling of a special sort. -- Albert Einstein --
I have lost all sense of home, having moved about so much. It means to me now -- only that place where the books are kept. -- John Steinbeck -- Have a great Tuesday! ********
If you've been paying attention AT ALL to my eating habits as revealed here on Bookpuddle, you will know what a change of gears this is for me. <-- Sushi! Seriously. Not kidding. I actually ate this stuff today and it was FANTASTIC! The photo you see here, with Einstein hovering in the background, this was the scene in the lunchroom -- well, just before I slathered that stuff in soy sauce. See the little packets of it there? Mmmmmm, honest-to-God, it was delightful. Filling, in a very non-heavy way. I think my body was a bit shocked. As this pile of sushi began falling into my gut, I could actually hear my entire gastrointestinal system crying out -- "What the hell?" Usually at this exact moment it is receiving stuff that used to be a cow!
I'm going to do this again, for sure, the sushi thing. This particular tray was called Spicy California Maki. I even used those wooden things that came with the whole kit. I refrained from the wasabi sauce.... see the small green packet of it there? My co-worker Teo grabbed it, ripped it open, and emptied the entire thing out onto what he was eating at the time. Just as he was shoving a forkful of it into his mouth I said, "I don't think you want to be doing that, man!" It completely healed him of a sinus problem he's had since childhood! All in all, an interesting afternoon in the ol' lunchroom.
Concentration level. Lack of distraction. Both of these factor into the final equation. Mb + Hb = Siadf. And "b" is a constant. We are reading the same book!
I lower my sunglasses and do that lateral eyeball roll, trying to see her page number. Good Lord! It's not possible. 135? We've only been here on the beach an hour!
Let's see, that guy came around with drinks, and then, oh yes, I snoozed a bit, but still! How can I only be at 35? Without the 1 in front! My book + Her book = She is always done first.
Is it the weekend yet? You know, lately, what with the change of seasons and all and that thing they do with the clocks, I am waking up when it is dark out and I'm setting the alarm of my building at work when it is..... [can you guess the next words?]........ yeah, WHEN IT IS DARK OUT. This just isn't right. Because it leaves so little time for more important things. Like ----- 1) drinking coffee. 2)Reading, while drinking coffee. 3) Eating a hamburger after you've had enough of the above. 4) Switching to beer, later on.
Stuff like that. But it's the weekend. Lettuce be thankful. I mean -- work is screwing up my entire life, I'm sorry. Now, take a look at this picture here:
See, that is a photo is of an actual Library somewhere in Australia. I am adopting it as my Personal Version of Heaven. Here is what I want to happen... -- So I win the Lottery, and that week it just happened to be $20 million. No. $22 million. Dollars. So I buy a house next to this Library. END OF STORY. I know you want more. But there IS no more! Leave me alone. I'll be fine. Leave me alone. Leave me alone, leave me alone, leavemealoneleavemealone! ********
QUESTIONS TO EINSTEIN: To what extent are you influenced by Christianity? "As a child I received instruction both in the Bible and the Talmud. I am a Jew but I am enthralled by the luminous figure of the Nazarene."
You accept the historical existence of Jesus? "Unquestionably! No one can read the Gospels without feeling the actual presence of Jesus. His personality pulsates in every word. No myth is filled with such life."
Do you believe in God? "I'm not an atheist. The problem involved is too vast for our limited minds. We are in the position of a little child entering a huge library filled with books in many languages. The child knows someone must have written those books. It does not know how. It does not understand the languages in which they are written. The child dimly suspects a mysterious order in the arrangement of the books but doesn't know what it is. That, it seems to me, is the attitude of even the most intelligent human being toward God. We see the universe marvelously arranged and obeying certain laws but only dimly understand these laws." -- From Einstein: His Life and Universe, by Walter Isaacson --
The title of this blog-posting may be a bit confusing. At first glance it might seem to imply that I think the word "genre" is a scary word! Perhaps I should have put a comma, after "scary." At any rate, tonight I am thinking about "scary" books. Halloween is fast approaching. And I want to read a SCARY book in the Halloween season.
So, tonight at Chapters I went up to this one Chapters employee and asked her, "Umm, where is your horror section?" I know what you're thinking. Since I practically LIVE at the place, shouldn't I already know where every section of the store is located? Well, yes! I DID! But recently this particular store did a big renovation and moved all their stuff around. As a veteran tenant, at first it was a bit traumatic for me. Like for quite a while I could not find the microwave, and trying to locate my mailbox? Yeah, well, I will save that story for a future blog. Suffice it to say, if I have not responded promptly to some of my fan [snail] mail lately, CHAPTERS is to blame!
I say to the girl, "Where is your HORROR section?" And wow, I was standing right in front of it. I told her I need a "scary" book for Halloween season. She pointed to Anne Rice and Stephen King, singling out a King novel called "Cell" as the next thing I should swipe my VISA about! But see..... the truth is, I don't really want HORROR! I want -- SCARY! Totally different thing. A guy getting chopped up with an unmanned chain saw? That's horror. But see, I don't want horror, I want..... "scary." Interesting that there is not a section in the store called "SCARY"....... or "SPOOKY."
I say all of this to just end with a question..... what is a great SCARY book you would recommend? Not HORROR! I do not want to read about some guy getting pushed into a wood-chipper. I want -- SCARY! Like with ghosts and stuff like that.
Speaking of John Irving, today is the day his new book hits the racks! Last Night In Twisted River. It's officially available in the stores. [At least here in Canada!] <-- I know this because here it is on the shelf at the Chapters store [I am writing this from the Starbucks within the place] and yesterday it was NOT yet available.
I took this picture about three minutes ago! [Cippy, do you LIVE at that store?] Yeah, pretty much. When I'm not at work you can usually find me here, clicking live footage of virtual book porn like this new offering from Mr. Irving. But this book, oh my God, I guess along with The Year of The Flood, this was my most anticipated novel of 2009! I just love John Irving. And this new book has such a TERRIFIC first sentence -- The young Canadian, who could not have been more than fifteen, had hesitated too long. You just know that the rest of this thing is going to be good! I watched Irving being interviewed by George Stroumboulopoulos [say that with a mouth full of crackers!] last night on The Hour! FASCINATING interview! I video-ed it, but the quality is so poor I currently refuse to post it here.
So, am I leaving the store today with a fresher-than-fresh new Irving book? No. I have a sneaky sneaky suspicion that I am going to be soon receiving a FREE copy, so I'm holding off on dragging one of these beauties to the cashier. Besides -- at the rate I am currently going [definitely NOT the speed of light] I may still be reading this massive Einstein book on into the Christmas season! ********
Your memory is a monster; you forget - it doesn't. It simply files things away. It keeps things for you, or hides things from you - and summons them to your recall with a will of its own. You think you have a memory; but it has you! -- John Irving --
Just taking a break here at Starbucks [coming to you LIVE, folks!] as I am absorbing my third pint of coffee... admittedly I'm a bit hyper... I feel like talking about Einstein.
As you know, I'm reading this biography of the man! Even though from time to time I really get bogged down in the strictly mathematical stuff, nonetheless, I find the character and personality of Albert Einstein to be just endlessly fascinating. And Walter Isaacson is a terrific writer. I cannot fathom the research that must have gone into the writing of this brick of a book.
Remember the bracelet fad [perhaps it is still a fad, I don't know, I've been out of the Christian loop for a while now] of the WWJD thing? As in, What Would Jesus Do? Well, in a whimsical way, I find that when I put the book aside and just live life, often I find myself wondering What Would Einstein Do? Or maybe more correctly, what would Einstein SAY! Because so often in the book he comes out with some real good zingers! What I love about the Einstein I am meeting in these pages is that he was such a non-conformist. He was not a joiner. Let's face it, he was eccentric in many ways. I mean, look at his hair and stuff! And even when he was wicked famous, he [Gandhi-like] often preferred traveling third-class!
At one real snazzy event where he was to receive an honorary doctorate from the University of Geneva [an institution founded by the great Protestant Reformer John Calvin] Einstein turned to a dignitary seated next to him and speculated, "Do you know what Calvin would have done had he been here?" The gentleman replied "No." Einstein continued, "He would have erected an enormous stake and had us all burnt for our sinful extravagance." Isaacson tells us that Einstein later recalled, "The man never addressed another word to me."
I like that. I just like his chutzpah! Another Einstein moment that really cracked me up was when he is again at a very regal ceremony and he is enduring speech after boring speech by all these other people, and he leans to the Dutch diplomat seated next to him and says, "I've just developed a new theory of eternity."
For years and years Einstein The Genius worked at [of all things] a patent office. He was a patent clerk. And for years before this, he could find no job whatsoever. Just imagine how crazy that is. A genius of this magnitude, forced into working at just a normal old job! And so all day today as I worked at my very very extremely menial physically-outrageous job, I thought of Einstein. What Would Einstein Do? Surely if he worked alongside me, together [us two geniuses] we would be able to come up with some easier way to do things. At the very least, he may be able to invent some way for time itself to go quicker. Some way for me to have been drinking coffee here at Starbucks a lot sooner. *********
I am convinced that we, in our day and age, are involved with too many things. By "too many things" I am referring to things we would rather NOT be involved with. Busyness can subtly come along and steal large and significant portions of who we are.
Hey, how many lifetimes are you going to live? Three? My cat may have nine of them, but seriously, I'm pretty sure that you and I as human beings only have one. In this sense, perhaps the most appropriately-named soap opera of all time is One Life To Live. What is the thing you most like doing? When is the last time you did that thing? If there is a great gap between the wanting and the doing, why is that gap there? Is there anything you can do to remove this barrier erected against your greatest desires? Take some time to consider what size of hammer is required to smash apart that obstacle between you and the reason you're breathing. Then -- get that hammer. While you can still swing it.
We had a thing where one of us would say You need a ride in the wheelbarrow right now. It meant we had violated some secret code, one only we could decipher, much less pay the fine
for. Fine. That's cute. I would rather eat a bullet than punish her. Oh, but I loved to threaten. The wheelbarrow thing got a lot of mileage! You need a ride in the wheelbarrow right now.
One afternoon I actually was pushing the thing. Full to the rim, toward her blessed plantation. Satan himself told me to dump it all into her gloves so she would chase me. So she would chase me.
A novel, like a myth, teaches us to see the world differently; it shows us how to look into our own hearts and to see our world from a perspective that goes beyond our own self-interest. If professional religious leaders cannot instruct us in mythical lore, our artists and creative writers can perhaps step into this priestly role and bring fresh insight to our lost and damaged world. -- Karen Armstrong --
You know, there are times when you go to one of these author "reading" events and think at the end of it, "Wow, that was cool. That was pretty neat-o." Well, I have just returned here to Old Milwaukee Headquarters from a night of being in the presence of author Karen Armstrong. Absolutely incredible. I really do not have words, the correct or even remotely adequate words to describe the feeling I get from absorbing such wisdom, such wealth of knowledge, presented in such gentle, meaningful, terms. Having read her memoirs, and several of her books on religion, I already was well aware that Karen has lived an incredibly interesting life, and I already knew that she was a brilliant scholar -- I would go so far as to say "religious genius." But tonight, I add to that panoply of praise by saying that Karen Armstrong is a wonderful, beautiful person. There is just no way that anyone can speak so transparently, in front of hundreds of listeners.... holding us in thrall.... in THRALL I say unto you... no way that anyone can "be" what she was, and be an unbeautiful person. It was glorious. I so look forward to reading her new book, The Case For God.
Her theme tonight [the whole thing was in interview format] was, I guess -- compassion. Dialogue about religion / theology that is not rooted in compassion is not dialogue. The BASIS of true religion must be The Golden Rule. Not only "do unto others as you would have them do unto you," BUT ALSO "Do not do unto others what you would not have done unto you." Any takers on who was the first person to promote this maxim? No. It was Confucius. I could say so much more, but won't.
Why do I not have my own photos of her? Well..... I arrived at this event 45 minutes early. Which means I had my pick of the best seats -- I was just behind the reserved seating rows. Which means.... a terrific spot. But the downside of this is that picture-taking and video-making is very obtrusive to those behind you. When I held the camera up, I was blocking the view of those behind me. So I refrained. PLUS, I was thinking "Hah! When the book-signing starts, I'LL BE IN THE FRONT LINES BABY!" Check out my frigging tail-lights! Compassion COMSMASHIN'! Know what I mean? Read Darwin! It's all about survival of the fittest, baby! [Me looking behind me -->] "Why didn't you have the sense to leave work early, you dumb ignorant........." Right about at the very moment as I was harboring such un-Christly thoughts, the moderator went to the microphone and announced that the book-signing would be taking place DOWNSTAIRS. What the hell? And where are the stairs? At the far end of where I am [on the evolutionary scale...] -- We all stand up and face the other way and now I am at the BACK of this herd of semi-evolved useless cattle! Not only could I make absolutely NO PROGRESS forward, but I could not move AT ALL!
So I just exited out a side door into the chilly evening, to come complain about it all here, on my blog. But very early on, I did get a wee small clip of Karen Armstrong partially answering the first question posed to her. You do get to hear her to-die-for accent -- have a listen.
If you have not heard of Karen Armstrong, first -- shame on you. Secondly, her memoirs are EXCELLENT reading. But so are all of her nearly two-dozen books on religion. Tonight was just glorious. To hear someone speak -- to hear someone eloquently speak this good -- well, for me it is, and will be, unforgettable. A milestone in my journey through life.
And speaking of milestones, this blog-posting, this one right here is #2,000 for me. Happy............ whatever......... to me! I want to thank you, my friends, for reading my babblings, these many years
People like you and me never grow old. We never cease to stand like curious children before the great mystery into which we were born. -- Albert Einstein to Otto Juliusburger, Sept.29, 1942 --
Lots of people like to read. Then there are people that are addicts. Another way of looking at "addictions"... it's like, hey, you are a "specialist" in this particular field. But the downside of every type of addiction is that without the chemical rush it affords you... you are somewhat debilitated. I do not at all believe the reports we sometimes see that tell us that books [the real kind, the kind you hold in your hands and you turn the pages] are on their way out. Going out of style, in favor of electronic accessibility to information, etc. No. Neither do I believe that maps or globes or atlases are going to be defunct because of the advent of GPS systems. The only place I think that books are perhaps suffering a decline in sales is in the realm of the purely informational. I'm referring to encyclopedias, dictionaries, phone books [when's the last time YOU bought one?].... that kind of jazz. Ask any guy that's out there in his faux-leather Oxfords [meanwhile, his car is leaking oil on your driveway] trying to unload a $3,000 set of Britannicas lately! Because seriously, you can find all of this stuff online! But who wants to read the latest Margaret Atwood or John Irving [...it's about 8 more days till his new one is available here in Canada, not that I'm rabidly x'ing the days off on my calendar or anything...] who wants to read Nabokov on a Kindle? COME ON! You want a BOOK! You want to feel it, smell it, shove it in your armpit, KISS IT now and then, rub it on your..... [I better stop there!]
OK, so how do you know if you are addicted to books? I ought to be an expert on this topic, so here goes...... just off the top of my head now, not even trying....
1)Do you sometimes avoid otherwise meaningful social interaction to read just one or two..... or three...... more chapters? OK, let's be honest. A hundred and eighty more pages?
2)You leave the house and you are halfway to wherever you are going and you realize you do not have your book with you. Do you have an a) panic attack, b) spastic seizure, c) brain aneurism, d) coronary event, and/or e) just drive directly into the nearest bridge abutment? Perhaps a), followed by b), c), d) and ending in e)?
3)Is the single greatest physical fear in your life losing your eyesight? And not because you can only SMELLhamburgers now when you eat them, but because you will now have to learn Braille?
If you have answered yes to any one of the questions above, you are a Book Addict. I answered "yes" to all three. Let's face it. You and I. We are exactly the thing whispered in the ears of those who not only orchestrated the "intervention" but personally drove us to The Treatment Center. Each of us is a --> [_______]. **********
From Einstein: His Life and Universe, by Walter Isaacson: His distracted demeanor, casual grooming, frayed clothing, and forgetfulness, which were later to make him appear to be the iconic absent-minded professor, were already evident in his student days. He was known to leave behind clothes, and sometimes even his suitcase, when he traveled, and his inability to remember his keys became a running joke with his landlady. He once visited the home of family friends and, he recalled, "I left forgetting my suitcase. My host said to my parents, 'That man will never amount to anything because he can't remember anything.'"
Can you imagine? Einstein! Not amounting to anything! [Interesting that he forgot his suitcase, and yet years later, recalled that he did this!] Anyhoo -- I just offer the above paragraph as my way of encouraging all of you absent-minded types out there who sometimes may feel that... ... Dammit! I forget what I was going to say, now!
Have a great Monday! Happy Thanksgiving Day, Canada.
Curiously enough, one cannot read a book: one can only reread it. A good reader, a major reader, an active and creative reader is a rereader.
<-- In her [very] recently released book, Changing My Mind: Occasional Essays, novelist Zadie Smith says, "The novels we know best have an architecture. Not only a door going in and another leading out, but rooms, hallways, stairs, little gardens front and back, trapdoors, hidden passageways, etc. It's a fortunate rereader who knows half a dozen novels this way in their lifetime."
I personally own FIVE separate copies of Till We Have Faces.
