There are many things that signal the end of the holiday season. The holiday lights on people's lawns go dark, the Rockefeller tree comes down, it becomes uncool to pay so much to go ice skating, and the stores sales that offer such a nice bargain don't come with the cheery holiday decorations.
But for me, what shakes me out of the holiday spirit is the shock of the Sunday Times that immediately follows the Christmas day. All of a sudden, for the four dollars you fork over, you get a very thin newspaper. I know the Sunday Times is still a tome compared to the weekday one, but today, as I picked up my copy at the local stationary, I couldn't believe how trimmed down it was.
I thought for a second that maybe some sections were missing. But I go to this particular store because the owner left out a section only once in the six months I've been going there... and it was a business section so all was well. I will never go to that one walgreens that left out the book review. So I knew all the sections were there.
And when I got home, I did confirm nothing was missing. But alas, gone are the glossy advertisements I throw out without reading. And every section was extremely thin, so thin that it was actually fold-able. The main news section didn't have page after page of Macy's ads. when i turn a page, i actually found an article. And yes it seems like all the articles are there. and the thin sections, as I've said, are not as unwieldy as before making the reading easier.
But I miss the advertisements with happy fashionable people wearing expensive things. The articles about Zimbabwe doesn't depress me as much when it is sandwiched in between an ad featuring santa and sweaters from Saks fifth ave. And while I know the ads will return (i hope) at the end of 2009, I am not so sure about the thinning job and real estate listings. I remember the time when there had to be a whole separate section-like-thingy for real estate listings. I was so annoyed at having another thing to recycle. but now it is attacheed to the real estate section almost like an afterthought.
Growing up is all about realizing that nothing can be counted on and everything is only for now. I do hope though that I can for years to come count on thick sunday times to unpack every december.
28 December 2008
01 December 2008
a link
From a very lazy blogger, a link to an excellent essay about book collecting:
The Well-tended Bookshelf
The Well-tended Bookshelf
06 November 2008
preserved thoughts
When this book is mould,
And a book of many
Waiting to be sold
For a casual penny,
In a little open case,
In a street unclean and cluttered,
Where a heavy mud is spattered
From the passing drays,
Stranger, pause and look;
From the dust of ages
Lift this little book,
Turn the tattered pages,
Read me, do not let me die!
Search the fading letters, finding
Steadfast in the broken binding
All that once was I!
From "The Poet and His Book"
Edna St. Vincent Millay
This poem I found in a book that was actually falling apart with tattered pages and a broken binding. I salvaged the tiny poetry volume in a pile of free books outside the Reg. As expected the selection there was poor but I was a first year and did not yet know that. But the search yielded me a couple of quaint books that I honestly took only because they were pretty, not too heavy and written by a poet I wanted to read.
After years of neglect, I picked up the two volumes again. I Read the book of sonnets first because it was shorter. And now this tiny blue book of lyrics have become a close friend. It's almost too scary to read the book though. It was a cheap volume even back when it was published: a 50 cent volume in the 50s for the masses. The paper is beyond yellow, the beginning few pages have already broken off, and the little pieces of papers from the cover peels off into my hands every time I read the book. I am not particularly kind to books. I like to "break them in" as to make them unique. But this time I've been careful. I don't even carry it around with me anymore on the buses and trains with my metrocard and things. but still, the book feels like it's disintegrating in my hands and that reminds me I unfortunately cannot do what the poet asks me forever: Read me, do not let me die!
Yes, I am reading it now, but I can't commit to its preservation. The poems that touch my young idealistic and naive soul may be repulsive in a few years. and even if I let this book, salvaged for less than a penny, be my companion for life, I will die. And if I can't prevent my own death, how can I prevent hers?
It brings me joy to own books. I like books... the paper, the font, the smell, and how it feels on my hands. But am I secretly enjoying keeping a cemetery of ideas? Because after all, writing is a way of preserving a thought, a way of mummifying an idea in the hopes that the product of the moment will outlive the creator.
So I am a memory keeper and my job is to let the writers live.
But I am not the first. Some books I buy from a bookstore and I am their first parent. But I tend to also inherit books because the previous owners who can no longer do the job. I have inherited books from strangers and friends, from people alive and dead.
The burden of a bookowner is a onerous and grave: keep ephemeral thoughts alive and bound. So I wonder, who will inherit my books? Will my granddaughter knit a pair of gloves from my knitting book and think how old fashioned and cool the designs are? If some young person inherits my books, is the memory of a college course a book and I took together, and the memory of our despair as a book and I comforted each other going to live beyond me?
If I want to not die, must I write or own books?
For now, I will continue to stare at my bookshelves, a display of no longer existing thoughts. Last weekend, I was out by the sea with my dad and saw the many stars. Though the sparkles came from long ago, perhaps from stars no longer alive, they were present fascinations for me. So the thoughts that occurred in virginia woolf decades ago, or a poem bought but not yet read are waiting to be discovered by me, the stargazer. Having those potential discoveries is what it means to be alive.
After years of neglect, I picked up the two volumes again. I Read the book of sonnets first because it was shorter. And now this tiny blue book of lyrics have become a close friend. It's almost too scary to read the book though. It was a cheap volume even back when it was published: a 50 cent volume in the 50s for the masses. The paper is beyond yellow, the beginning few pages have already broken off, and the little pieces of papers from the cover peels off into my hands every time I read the book. I am not particularly kind to books. I like to "break them in" as to make them unique. But this time I've been careful. I don't even carry it around with me anymore on the buses and trains with my metrocard and things. but still, the book feels like it's disintegrating in my hands and that reminds me I unfortunately cannot do what the poet asks me forever: Read me, do not let me die!
Yes, I am reading it now, but I can't commit to its preservation. The poems that touch my young idealistic and naive soul may be repulsive in a few years. and even if I let this book, salvaged for less than a penny, be my companion for life, I will die. And if I can't prevent my own death, how can I prevent hers?
It brings me joy to own books. I like books... the paper, the font, the smell, and how it feels on my hands. But am I secretly enjoying keeping a cemetery of ideas? Because after all, writing is a way of preserving a thought, a way of mummifying an idea in the hopes that the product of the moment will outlive the creator.
So I am a memory keeper and my job is to let the writers live.
But I am not the first. Some books I buy from a bookstore and I am their first parent. But I tend to also inherit books because the previous owners who can no longer do the job. I have inherited books from strangers and friends, from people alive and dead.
The burden of a bookowner is a onerous and grave: keep ephemeral thoughts alive and bound. So I wonder, who will inherit my books? Will my granddaughter knit a pair of gloves from my knitting book and think how old fashioned and cool the designs are? If some young person inherits my books, is the memory of a college course a book and I took together, and the memory of our despair as a book and I comforted each other going to live beyond me?
If I want to not die, must I write or own books?
For now, I will continue to stare at my bookshelves, a display of no longer existing thoughts. Last weekend, I was out by the sea with my dad and saw the many stars. Though the sparkles came from long ago, perhaps from stars no longer alive, they were present fascinations for me. So the thoughts that occurred in virginia woolf decades ago, or a poem bought but not yet read are waiting to be discovered by me, the stargazer. Having those potential discoveries is what it means to be alive.
19 October 2008
the world of woolf
Ah.. it seems there is another book out about Virginia Woolf--this one about her relationship with her maids:
Mrs. Woolf and the Servants by Alison Light
Virginia Woolf's turbulent relationships with Nellie and other servants were hinted to me by the movie, The Hours, and The Writer's Diary, a diary of Virginia Woolf edited by Leonard. So I guess it was common knowledge that Virginia Woolf was awkward with her servants. And to find out more, I want so very much want to read this new book.
But alas, it's 30 dollars. So I will wait for the trade paperback edition.
Ah, but the biography of Leonard Woolf by Victoria Glendinning is now on paperback:
Leonard Woolf: a Biography
so perhaps I should go and get the book. I have a great interest in reading up on the husband because I shall not marry until I find my Leonard.
Oh but before getting more deep into the life of my favorite writer, I feel I should first finish the Quentin Bell biography of Virginia Woolf*:
Virginia Woolf: a biography
But it's such a long book... but yes, I vow to read the Bell biography first then the Leonard book then the one about v. woolf and her servants. Ah, by the time I get to "Mrs. Woolf and her Servants," it may be out in paperback!
How it all works out. But so many books to read!
*If anybody is actually reading this blog, you might be interested to know that the Quentin Bell biography of Virginia Woolf was a book I bought from the cool philosophy grad student! It's a really pretty book too!
Mrs. Woolf and the Servants by Alison Light
Virginia Woolf's turbulent relationships with Nellie and other servants were hinted to me by the movie, The Hours, and The Writer's Diary, a diary of Virginia Woolf edited by Leonard. So I guess it was common knowledge that Virginia Woolf was awkward with her servants. And to find out more, I want so very much want to read this new book.
But alas, it's 30 dollars. So I will wait for the trade paperback edition.
Ah, but the biography of Leonard Woolf by Victoria Glendinning is now on paperback:
Leonard Woolf: a Biography
so perhaps I should go and get the book. I have a great interest in reading up on the husband because I shall not marry until I find my Leonard.
Oh but before getting more deep into the life of my favorite writer, I feel I should first finish the Quentin Bell biography of Virginia Woolf*:
Virginia Woolf: a biography
But it's such a long book... but yes, I vow to read the Bell biography first then the Leonard book then the one about v. woolf and her servants. Ah, by the time I get to "Mrs. Woolf and her Servants," it may be out in paperback!
How it all works out. But so many books to read!
*If anybody is actually reading this blog, you might be interested to know that the Quentin Bell biography of Virginia Woolf was a book I bought from the cool philosophy grad student! It's a really pretty book too!
14 October 2008
The Little Prince
I saw one of my students reading "The Little Prince" and I got disproportionately emotional. I was so excited for her. The journey she is about to take is so wonderful. What I would give to go back to read "The Little Prince" for the first time again.
I undoubtedly spooked her out with my enthusiasm... or maybe she's used to her slightly odd teacher by now. But in any case, she consented to me telling her my story which goes like this:
The first time I read "The Little Prince" was back in kindergarten. It was back in the day when my mom would take me to the bookstore and we'd spend the afternoon there. She had only one rule: pick ONE book to buy. And it was a great rule. I would spend what to a child seems like forever picking out the book that I'd REALLY want, a book I had already fallen in love with. And I would devour that book and my mom would take me back to the bookstore for another book. I am sure my mom nudged me in certain directions while narrowing down the choice because I read everything from science fiction to poetry and I am sure I wasn't that interdisciplinary as a child.
Anyway, I think what I picked "The Little Prince" because it was such a pretty book with interesting and intriguing pictures. And I loved reading it. I remember it impressed the adults too. For me though it was a fantastic adventure story and with the little prince as my companion, I flew through the galaxy. It was a happy and exciting book... funny too with its tiny star and the gigantic baobobs.
I then read it again at the suggestion of a junior high friend in the seventh grade. And this time, the book had transformed itself. No longer was it an adventure story. I think I didn't even notice that I was traveling from one star to another. What interested me this time were the characters. And it made me ponder about the different adults in the world and if I wanted to be like any of them. It made me wonder about the different lives people lead and why we do nonsensical things. The little prince this time introduced me to myriad of people and gave me a lot to consider as I started my adolescence.
The third time I read the book was about a year ago. I missed my little companion and so I picked up the copy at the Strand. Finally, I saw that this was a sad book. The book was about, above all else, love and relationships. The love between the prince and the rose, the friendship between the prince and the pilot, and the asymmetrical, perhaps therapeutic, relationship between the prince and the fox. Attaching to someone, or "taming" as they say in the book, leads inevitably to pain because all relationships are transient. But when we are finally consoled, because as is told in the book we are all eventually consoled, we will be glad to have had the intimacy. A love profoundly changes you and your relationship to the world.
So my student heard me go on like this. And I hope I motivated her to read easy and hard books because the books have a lot to offer us independent of our capacity for understanding. I wonder what she will get from the book having grown up in different surroundings, and having different heartbreaks and challenges than me.
I undoubtedly spooked her out with my enthusiasm... or maybe she's used to her slightly odd teacher by now. But in any case, she consented to me telling her my story which goes like this:
The first time I read "The Little Prince" was back in kindergarten. It was back in the day when my mom would take me to the bookstore and we'd spend the afternoon there. She had only one rule: pick ONE book to buy. And it was a great rule. I would spend what to a child seems like forever picking out the book that I'd REALLY want, a book I had already fallen in love with. And I would devour that book and my mom would take me back to the bookstore for another book. I am sure my mom nudged me in certain directions while narrowing down the choice because I read everything from science fiction to poetry and I am sure I wasn't that interdisciplinary as a child.
Anyway, I think what I picked "The Little Prince" because it was such a pretty book with interesting and intriguing pictures. And I loved reading it. I remember it impressed the adults too. For me though it was a fantastic adventure story and with the little prince as my companion, I flew through the galaxy. It was a happy and exciting book... funny too with its tiny star and the gigantic baobobs.
I then read it again at the suggestion of a junior high friend in the seventh grade. And this time, the book had transformed itself. No longer was it an adventure story. I think I didn't even notice that I was traveling from one star to another. What interested me this time were the characters. And it made me ponder about the different adults in the world and if I wanted to be like any of them. It made me wonder about the different lives people lead and why we do nonsensical things. The little prince this time introduced me to myriad of people and gave me a lot to consider as I started my adolescence.
The third time I read the book was about a year ago. I missed my little companion and so I picked up the copy at the Strand. Finally, I saw that this was a sad book. The book was about, above all else, love and relationships. The love between the prince and the rose, the friendship between the prince and the pilot, and the asymmetrical, perhaps therapeutic, relationship between the prince and the fox. Attaching to someone, or "taming" as they say in the book, leads inevitably to pain because all relationships are transient. But when we are finally consoled, because as is told in the book we are all eventually consoled, we will be glad to have had the intimacy. A love profoundly changes you and your relationship to the world.
So my student heard me go on like this. And I hope I motivated her to read easy and hard books because the books have a lot to offer us independent of our capacity for understanding. I wonder what she will get from the book having grown up in different surroundings, and having different heartbreaks and challenges than me.
07 October 2008
being young and buying a book
when I buy a book at the age of 25, I think about spending decades with it. It's exciting this marriage, beginning of a relationship. maybe i'll carry it with me when i travel. maybe i'll snuggle up with it when i am in despair. but what will i think when i am 65? is that why there are so many old people at the library: because they can't bear to buy a book knowing there isn't a lifetime together?
29 September 2008
Reading log
I have just finished reading through "Stitch 'N Bitch: The Knitter's Handbook." And without thinking too much about it, I added it to my list of books read. I have been keeping a list like this religiously and voluntarily since the seventh grade. My list of books read has been on a piece of looseleaf, back of a planner, and in a separate notebook designated for the purpose of keeping a list of books read. I have finally organized my disparate lists into a nice notebook laura got me years back so now I have a (note)book for the list of books read.
I had lists that had just the author and the title to book reviews, but now I just list the date finished, title, author, publisher, isbn, and a star rating (from 1 star to 5 starts).
I realize of course that this is just another one of my obsessive lists that is of no interest to anybody other than me... but it's a very important list to me nonetheless. The book sits prominently on my desk and just as much as I enjoy starring at my bookshelves, I enjoy flipping through this neat and organized list of books I read. This is my personal history; my literary photo album. I reminisce about a book, about the transient love-affair, and about the disappointments and the heartbreak. I reminisce about what I was thinking about and what I was doing when I read certain books because every book I read is inevitably tied to a point in personal development.
When I read a book, I feel a great desire to finish it so that I can add it to my book. I constantly think about how many stars the book deserves and when I can't make up my mind, I feel distressed. But I always take for granted that I will add the book to the list, no matter how short, and how disappointing.
My recent introduction to knitting books, however, presented me with a very disturbing issue: can I add knitting books to my list of books read? For that matter, what about any instruction books, work books, or picture books?
I have long since known that books don't exist just to be read. They were my toys, my unhealthy obsession, and, for some people, art. Yet why is it so distressing to think that there are books sitting on my bookshelf, books I spent time with that may not belong in my list of books read? I have long ago decided that workbooks don't count as books read (although I have a tendency to hoard them and love them in my own way). And I guess I subconsciously decided not to include knitting pattern books because I haven't so far. But with the stitch and bitch book, I have added it without thinking too much about it... which makes me wonder if I should add my other knitting books.
Well, the difference between the stitch n bitch book and my other knitting books is that there is substantial amount of writing in the s and b book. But then the second half of that book is patterns and photos and I certainly didn't read through them! And what about "Fitted Knits," a book I "read" even though there isn't a lot of writing and spent way more time with while struggling through its sweater patterns?
I guess I need a way to define a book read. Is it defined by how much time I spent with it, what percentage of the book is writing, or what I learned from it? All three of those criteria are flowed in some ways... so I am going a bit crazy.
Of course I can start a new list of knitting books "read," but then I know I'll resort to that solution too many times and will end up with another set of disparate lists. I am into simplifying now, organizing my life, and cutting down on the number of ongoing notebooks. Besides, I want to have a LOOOOONG list of books read... but I would feel uneasy if the list had books that weren't really read. I'd feel like a fraud.
So no answers. No resolutions. what to do?? well, until a better solution comes along, I guess I'll add only the books I feel have been read into my notebook, and pattern books only in my online list of books. I suppose that will work.
I had lists that had just the author and the title to book reviews, but now I just list the date finished, title, author, publisher, isbn, and a star rating (from 1 star to 5 starts).
I realize of course that this is just another one of my obsessive lists that is of no interest to anybody other than me... but it's a very important list to me nonetheless. The book sits prominently on my desk and just as much as I enjoy starring at my bookshelves, I enjoy flipping through this neat and organized list of books I read. This is my personal history; my literary photo album. I reminisce about a book, about the transient love-affair, and about the disappointments and the heartbreak. I reminisce about what I was thinking about and what I was doing when I read certain books because every book I read is inevitably tied to a point in personal development.
When I read a book, I feel a great desire to finish it so that I can add it to my book. I constantly think about how many stars the book deserves and when I can't make up my mind, I feel distressed. But I always take for granted that I will add the book to the list, no matter how short, and how disappointing.
My recent introduction to knitting books, however, presented me with a very disturbing issue: can I add knitting books to my list of books read? For that matter, what about any instruction books, work books, or picture books?
I have long since known that books don't exist just to be read. They were my toys, my unhealthy obsession, and, for some people, art. Yet why is it so distressing to think that there are books sitting on my bookshelf, books I spent time with that may not belong in my list of books read? I have long ago decided that workbooks don't count as books read (although I have a tendency to hoard them and love them in my own way). And I guess I subconsciously decided not to include knitting pattern books because I haven't so far. But with the stitch and bitch book, I have added it without thinking too much about it... which makes me wonder if I should add my other knitting books.
Well, the difference between the stitch n bitch book and my other knitting books is that there is substantial amount of writing in the s and b book. But then the second half of that book is patterns and photos and I certainly didn't read through them! And what about "Fitted Knits," a book I "read" even though there isn't a lot of writing and spent way more time with while struggling through its sweater patterns?
I guess I need a way to define a book read. Is it defined by how much time I spent with it, what percentage of the book is writing, or what I learned from it? All three of those criteria are flowed in some ways... so I am going a bit crazy.
Of course I can start a new list of knitting books "read," but then I know I'll resort to that solution too many times and will end up with another set of disparate lists. I am into simplifying now, organizing my life, and cutting down on the number of ongoing notebooks. Besides, I want to have a LOOOOONG list of books read... but I would feel uneasy if the list had books that weren't really read. I'd feel like a fraud.
So no answers. No resolutions. what to do?? well, until a better solution comes along, I guess I'll add only the books I feel have been read into my notebook, and pattern books only in my online list of books. I suppose that will work.
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