November 6, 2003
It is so long since I have read a book that the physicality of a book, the sighting of one, particularly in a public place with a body attached to the book and reading it, can cause an odd feverish, almost erotic excitement in me. The last one I read was by a friend, and it is an excellent book. I enjoyed it not only for the pleasure of reading it but also for the feeling of vindication that he had written a wonderful book. But I haven't read anything since. When I look at a page now I seem incapable of reading down the lines of print, from left to right, of making sense of the accumulating sentences, of slipping into someone's intention. I am beginning to wonder if I have late onset ADD. Even magazines and newspapers prove problematic, though the former can delight with their visuals. And this inability to read is unnerving because for me, as I suppose for many of those with writerly pretensions, the act of reading and writing are symbiotic. I passed the window of St. Mark's Books last week and in the window was Lydia Davis' translation of Swann's Way, a book I have never read, but I had heard that this writer that I greatly admire was in the process of translating it and I have long promised myself that when the book became available I would read it. So it sits to the right of my head when I sleep, the last in a pile of unread books. (I still occasionally haunt a bookshop, make a purchase, to satisfy that part of reading that is linked to the physical aspect of books and to that great anticipatory delight that the prospect of an unread book can provide.) The not reading of books, for me, has the quality of what I imagine people view as a sinful act. Yesterday I remembered a younger self escaping some office job to sit in a sun drenched Central Park to read a book I had purchased in the late Books and Co. on Madison Avenue. Perhaps it was youth, the sun, the temporary escape from copy editing foul prose, but I suspect it was simply the act of being closely involved with a book that made me so happy.
I'm half way through Moby Dick, it's the first book I've read in a year. The LD translation is next on my list.
This makes me wonder, as if I needed any encouragement, if escape is the key. Does your new life make reading more viable? By the way, HAPPY BIRTHDAY. I've been having Steve longings of late and leave daft messages on your cell phone.
|
It is so long since I have read a book that the physicality of a book, the sighting of one, particularly in a public place with a body attached to the book and reading it, can cause an odd feverish, almost erotic excitement in me. The last one I read was by a friend, and it is an excellent book. I enjoyed it not only for the pleasure of reading it but also for the feeling of vindication that he had written a wonderful book. But I haven't read anything since. When I look at a page now I seem incapable of reading down the lines of print, from left to right, of making sense of the accumulating sentences, of slipping into someone's intention. I am beginning to wonder if I have late onset ADD. Even magazines and newspapers prove problematic, though the former can delight with their visuals. And this inability to read is unnerving because for me, as I suppose for many of those with writerly pretensions, the act of reading and writing are symbiotic. I passed the window of St. Mark's Books last week and in the window was Lydia Davis' translation of Swann's Way, a book I have never read, but I had heard that this writer that I greatly admire was in the process of translating it and I have long promised myself that when the book became available I would read it. So it sits to the right of my head when I sleep, the last in a pile of unread books. (I still occasionally haunt a bookshop, make a purchase, to satisfy that part of reading that is linked to the physical aspect of books and to that great anticipatory delight that the prospect of an unread book can provide.) The not reading of books, for me, has the quality of what I imagine people view as a sinful act. Yesterday I remembered a younger self escaping some office job to sit in a sun drenched Central Park to read a book I had purchased in the late Books and Co. on Madison Avenue. Perhaps it was youth, the sun, the temporary escape from copy editing foul prose, but I suspect it was simply the act of being closely involved with a book that made me so happy.
- rachael 11-06-2003 10:25 pm
I'm half way through Moby Dick, it's the first book I've read in a year. The LD translation is next on my list.
- steve 11-07-2003 3:51 am [add a comment]
This makes me wonder, as if I needed any encouragement, if escape is the key. Does your new life make reading more viable? By the way, HAPPY BIRTHDAY. I've been having Steve longings of late and leave daft messages on your cell phone.
- rachael 11-07-2003 10:21 am [add a comment]
Less viable. I had to escape from my new life to get this far (half way) through the Melville.
Thanks for the messages, did you get mine?
Hello to the Sasquatch.
- steve 11-07-2003 4:26 pm [add a comment]