- Rain that tappity taps.
- A new skein of bright yellow cotton bamboo yarn on its way to becoming a summer scarf.
- An ornate Jane Austen book.
- A cup of joe.
- The Saturday Show on WNYC.
- A week old (almost) New York Times Magazine.
- And a mind made up to enjoy a rainy Saturday morning reading and knitting instead of fretting.
23 June 2009
A Sluggish Saturday...
The Ingredients:
12 June 2009
A To-Read List
Sheenae surprised me yesterday with an Alice Munro book Runaway. Despite what I said about the practice of lending and borrowing books, I really appreciated her lugging around the hardcover book all day long so she can lend it to me. I have heard lots about but never read her. And I started thinking about some of the people I want to read but haven't:
After Alice Munro though, who shall I read next? The prospect of discovery excites me.
- Tolstoy, Dostoevsky, and Chekov (The Russians)
- Italo Calvino
- John Cheever
- Herman Melville (Moby Dick)
- Proust
- Flannery O'Connor
- Gertrude Stein
- Joyce Carol Oates
After Alice Munro though, who shall I read next? The prospect of discovery excites me.
11 June 2009
The Complete Works of...
One thing I can't figure out: why do people buy The Complete Works of Someone Prominent? The thickness and the subsequent heaviness necessary to contain a person's entire published works in one volume makes the book more suitable for hurling at a roommate/spouse/significant other/robber than reading. Besides, buying books isn't always about the reading, so really, why do people buy those monsters?
Consider also: there is a steep activation energy curve for those books--you have to pick one up (oh the ATPs required!) and carry it over to the cash register. Then you have to fork over money for the thing and lug it home. So many onerous steps in which to simply give up. So it must take some singleminded determination to carry the mission through and become the owner of all thoughts published by someone.
Some guesses: People want to reference their revered writer. I see this a lot with people who own the Complete Works of Shakespeare. But there must be other reasons... you wouldn't go around referencing Plato, would you? So is it maybe a form of homage to a favorite writer? Or is it a form of therapy: you feel a pride of ownership and therefore feel good/intellectual? Or, is it to alleviate a different form of insecurity--the insecurity that stems from possibly not being able to open up a book and point to a quote when you want/need it? Is that similar to why people used to buy a set of encyclopedia? Did they feel relieved knowing they owned knowledge itself (until the next edition came out)? Did anybody actually read the encyclopedia the whole way through? If you don't read it, do you really own the information? Ah, but now I am getting into a list of things to ask Google. So going back to the complete works...
Maybe the book is really pretty on the bookshelf. The complete works do tend to look like real books: hard cover, maybe leather bound, substantial and serious looking. Or or or.... maybe the book is bought to actually be read?
Ah for me it was both the extreme prettiness of and the desire to read the works of Jane Austen that prompted me to buy the Barnes and Noble produced book of seven Jane Austen novels. I am usually not a huge fan of Barnes and Noble classics. Though they are well-priced, the paper doesn't smell so nice and, in general, the binding is cheap. But the Jane Austen book was pretty. It smelled nice. And more importantly, I saw it when I was just starting to get obsessed with Austen. Yea, I know girls in their late teens fall in love with her novels. But having totally misunderstood Pride and Prejudice in the seventh grade, I vowed never to subject myself to books so boring and insulting to women. I even argued with my 11th grade English teacher when she said Austen was a feminist. Not my most proud academic moment, but eventually I saw how clever she is when I read Northanger Abbey a few months ago. And now I am hooked on the world of parties and marriages.
So here I am trying to read all of Jane Austen in one book. I even went far as saying June is my personal Jane Austen month. Reading thin, almost translucent, paper with font 10 writing while breathing in the allergy inducing gold dust is a whole new experience than reading a paperback.
Ah, but I still don't really get why people buy the complete works of someone. Full disclosure: I do own a couple of other complete works of... Emily Dickinson (a great bargain) and Plato (college class). But can we really own the complete works of someone? What about the unpublished writings? Or the thoughts that were disrupted before being put on paper? Or the thoughts that went unrecognized? Even The Bible, with its various versions that leave out different texts, isn't the complete works of God.
Consider also: there is a steep activation energy curve for those books--you have to pick one up (oh the ATPs required!) and carry it over to the cash register. Then you have to fork over money for the thing and lug it home. So many onerous steps in which to simply give up. So it must take some singleminded determination to carry the mission through and become the owner of all thoughts published by someone.
Some guesses: People want to reference their revered writer. I see this a lot with people who own the Complete Works of Shakespeare. But there must be other reasons... you wouldn't go around referencing Plato, would you? So is it maybe a form of homage to a favorite writer? Or is it a form of therapy: you feel a pride of ownership and therefore feel good/intellectual? Or, is it to alleviate a different form of insecurity--the insecurity that stems from possibly not being able to open up a book and point to a quote when you want/need it? Is that similar to why people used to buy a set of encyclopedia? Did they feel relieved knowing they owned knowledge itself (until the next edition came out)? Did anybody actually read the encyclopedia the whole way through? If you don't read it, do you really own the information? Ah, but now I am getting into a list of things to ask Google. So going back to the complete works...
Maybe the book is really pretty on the bookshelf. The complete works do tend to look like real books: hard cover, maybe leather bound, substantial and serious looking. Or or or.... maybe the book is bought to actually be read?
Ah for me it was both the extreme prettiness of and the desire to read the works of Jane Austen that prompted me to buy the Barnes and Noble produced book of seven Jane Austen novels. I am usually not a huge fan of Barnes and Noble classics. Though they are well-priced, the paper doesn't smell so nice and, in general, the binding is cheap. But the Jane Austen book was pretty. It smelled nice. And more importantly, I saw it when I was just starting to get obsessed with Austen. Yea, I know girls in their late teens fall in love with her novels. But having totally misunderstood Pride and Prejudice in the seventh grade, I vowed never to subject myself to books so boring and insulting to women. I even argued with my 11th grade English teacher when she said Austen was a feminist. Not my most proud academic moment, but eventually I saw how clever she is when I read Northanger Abbey a few months ago. And now I am hooked on the world of parties and marriages.
So here I am trying to read all of Jane Austen in one book. I even went far as saying June is my personal Jane Austen month. Reading thin, almost translucent, paper with font 10 writing while breathing in the allergy inducing gold dust is a whole new experience than reading a paperback.
Ah, but I still don't really get why people buy the complete works of someone. Full disclosure: I do own a couple of other complete works of... Emily Dickinson (a great bargain) and Plato (college class). But can we really own the complete works of someone? What about the unpublished writings? Or the thoughts that were disrupted before being put on paper? Or the thoughts that went unrecognized? Even The Bible, with its various versions that leave out different texts, isn't the complete works of God.
04 June 2009
borrowed books; lent books
The access to books I don't own (the public and friends' libraries) is a huge boon on a promiscuous reader. While I love to buy books for the euphoria of being a book-owner, it can also be too much of a commitment for someone like me who finds it a crime to throw out a book, even a bad one. My vanity (don't want the number of books I own to go down), of course, outweighs my moral indignation (can't throw away someone's thoughts).
When you buy a book, you are in a sense committing to read that volume. If it sits on a bookshelf for too long (more than a year?), you feel guilty. The ambient questioning with a tinge of recriminations begin: "Why did I buy that book if I wasn't going to read it? Why am I so lazy? Why haven't I read that book yet? God, I don't read enough." My favorite is the perennial leftover thought from college: "Why are you so behind with your reading?" To avoid the self-directed psychological torture, you have to buy the books you know you will like. I even have a couple of friends who, for this very reason, only buy books they have already read (and liked).
You can be more loose when picking a book at the library. You can try a new author (some famous award winning author you haven't yet read), or a book you aren't sure you'll love (fiction you see in bookstores and best-selling lists). You can also read a book you kinda sorta wanna read but don't wanna buy (non-fiction books that you want to read but is still in hardcover). Finally, library is a great place for guilty pleasure reading (chick lit, for example). You have the option of stopping 50 pages in if the book is so very bleh. And ultimately you will purge yourself of the so-so books and the guilty pleasure reading books you didn't wanna own when you return the book. Though the purging feeling is great, having to make the trip is very annoying. Hence, one of the factors that go into borrowing a book from the library has to be portability. That explains why I have not finished the Harry Potter series (yes, I know the movie is coming out and hence the time is running out). The real danger with borrowing from the library, of course, is that you will find a book that you truly love, a real gem, and it'll hurt to part with the book. For example, Gilead. So despite the recession and all, I don't frequent the library that much.
Borrowing from friends' libraries is a bit different. More specifically, with friends, we are willing to take even greater risks than with the library books. We venture, not only into a new author's books, but a whole genre. Irrationally, we even delude ourselves into borrowing books we are pretty sure we won't really like that much, or a really long book that will take us more than this lifetime to read. Maybe she always talks about this book, maybe she has a book you've been hearing a lot about, or maybe she flaunts a book you know you should read but don't really really want to. Before you know it, you've asked to borrow it.
Then a whole new beast: the books they force on you. They bring the book over and say, "hey, borrow this book." Even worse, "you SHOULD read this book. I KNOW you'll love it." You protest politely saying, well, you just don't have enough time and you don't want to hold the book hostage. But alas, they even say you can take a while to read it. Okay, full disclosure: I have been guilty of springing books on people as well, most recently on Alice. But what can we do when, as Agatha Christie notes in "A Murder is Announced":
Not to say I am not grateful for friends' libraries. Really. I have read some really great books at the insistence of earnest friends. And there's something really intimate about sharing books.
But the problem is with friends' books is similar to library books: they must be returned. And here we must carefully weigh the potential schism in friendship over the potential boost in friendship from sharing. Let's face it: we tend not to return books. And nothing breeds resentment like not returning a book. That's a crime forever remembered. I myself had an internal list of books that never made their way back to me. And now I have an external list where I keep track of books lent. Never mind that I have books on my bookshelf that aren't mine. Perhaps it's not resentment. It's more like a thread of hope... that if you keep remembering the book and send it good thoughts, it'll find its way back to you.
Despite all the hassle and the risks, we continue to lend. We INSIST on lending. Confession: I want people to borrow my books. I don't want my books to get lonely and neglected. And I don't subscribe to the philosophy of keeping books in pristine conditions. I want to "break in" my books because the books that look "used" are unique. And really, I do think sharing books is a great sign of friendship. Hence I welcome people to borrow my books, write in them, and read them. Just (try to) remember to return them.
When you buy a book, you are in a sense committing to read that volume. If it sits on a bookshelf for too long (more than a year?), you feel guilty. The ambient questioning with a tinge of recriminations begin: "Why did I buy that book if I wasn't going to read it? Why am I so lazy? Why haven't I read that book yet? God, I don't read enough." My favorite is the perennial leftover thought from college: "Why are you so behind with your reading?" To avoid the self-directed psychological torture, you have to buy the books you know you will like. I even have a couple of friends who, for this very reason, only buy books they have already read (and liked).
You can be more loose when picking a book at the library. You can try a new author (some famous award winning author you haven't yet read), or a book you aren't sure you'll love (fiction you see in bookstores and best-selling lists). You can also read a book you kinda sorta wanna read but don't wanna buy (non-fiction books that you want to read but is still in hardcover). Finally, library is a great place for guilty pleasure reading (chick lit, for example). You have the option of stopping 50 pages in if the book is so very bleh. And ultimately you will purge yourself of the so-so books and the guilty pleasure reading books you didn't wanna own when you return the book. Though the purging feeling is great, having to make the trip is very annoying. Hence, one of the factors that go into borrowing a book from the library has to be portability. That explains why I have not finished the Harry Potter series (yes, I know the movie is coming out and hence the time is running out). The real danger with borrowing from the library, of course, is that you will find a book that you truly love, a real gem, and it'll hurt to part with the book. For example, Gilead. So despite the recession and all, I don't frequent the library that much.
Borrowing from friends' libraries is a bit different. More specifically, with friends, we are willing to take even greater risks than with the library books. We venture, not only into a new author's books, but a whole genre. Irrationally, we even delude ourselves into borrowing books we are pretty sure we won't really like that much, or a really long book that will take us more than this lifetime to read. Maybe she always talks about this book, maybe she has a book you've been hearing a lot about, or maybe she flaunts a book you know you should read but don't really really want to. Before you know it, you've asked to borrow it.
Then a whole new beast: the books they force on you. They bring the book over and say, "hey, borrow this book." Even worse, "you SHOULD read this book. I KNOW you'll love it." You protest politely saying, well, you just don't have enough time and you don't want to hold the book hostage. But alas, they even say you can take a while to read it. Okay, full disclosure: I have been guilty of springing books on people as well, most recently on Alice. But what can we do when, as Agatha Christie notes in "A Murder is Announced":
If anyone is determined to lend you a book, you never can get out of it.
Not to say I am not grateful for friends' libraries. Really. I have read some really great books at the insistence of earnest friends. And there's something really intimate about sharing books.
But the problem is with friends' books is similar to library books: they must be returned. And here we must carefully weigh the potential schism in friendship over the potential boost in friendship from sharing. Let's face it: we tend not to return books. And nothing breeds resentment like not returning a book. That's a crime forever remembered. I myself had an internal list of books that never made their way back to me. And now I have an external list where I keep track of books lent. Never mind that I have books on my bookshelf that aren't mine. Perhaps it's not resentment. It's more like a thread of hope... that if you keep remembering the book and send it good thoughts, it'll find its way back to you.
Despite all the hassle and the risks, we continue to lend. We INSIST on lending. Confession: I want people to borrow my books. I don't want my books to get lonely and neglected. And I don't subscribe to the philosophy of keeping books in pristine conditions. I want to "break in" my books because the books that look "used" are unique. And really, I do think sharing books is a great sign of friendship. Hence I welcome people to borrow my books, write in them, and read them. Just (try to) remember to return them.
24 May 2009
The Recurring, Ineluctable Summer...
Memorial Day Weekend is here (horray!?) signaling an unofficial beginning of summer. The imminence of summer is turning me quite grumpy. I don't like the summer; it's my least favorite season. I hate the heat, the living things, the mocking sun:
At least the Strand is air-conditioned,' I momentarily thought on Saturday. The bookstore provided a much needed shelter from the sweltering metropolitan heat. But wait a minute--I am so sure the Strand was NOT air conditioned a few years back... I can even hear the inefficient fan in my mind. Yet shee doesn't remember the Strand not being air-conditioned. So can someone tell me if my memory is real or imagined?
In any case, I am not sure if I like air-conditioned Strand. That means I will have to contend with other people when I shop for books this summer. Granted, people buying books preserve the place (already the annex near the sea port closed down...), but I'd rather deal with the heat and the stuffiness (of the air) than (stuffy) people. You have to be oddly assertive at the Strand, especially near the popular fiction stands. Are you going to progress around the corner and check out all the books that are displayed so that you can give yourself a chance to pick up that book you always wanted to read for five dollars, or are you gonna back off because there's three other people in front of you? I never had a problem though--I can usually squeeze by. Besides, you can always escape temporarily down to the psychology section that lines a wall in the basement. The shelves tremble every few minutes as a train pulls out of the Union Square Station and you feel so safe from the crowd in the underbelly of the city sustained by dusty psychoanalytic writings.
So okay, I will probably cope with the air-conditioning, but I don't know if I can if they add a cafe and comfy chairs.
The summer isn't quite here yet. I still have maybe a month of reprieve form the heat, the people and the mosquitoes. I will miss the days when it's still a bit chilly in the morning. I will miss reading under a comforter and wearing knitted things. But maybe reading at the beach a few times will make me forget and abide by the summer rules.
Not that I'm losing my grip: I am just tired of summer.
You reach for a shirt in a drawer and the day is wasted.
If only winter were here for snow to smother
all these streets, these humans; but first, the blasted
green. I would sleep in my clothes or just pluck a borrowed
book, while what's left of the year's slack rhythm,
like a dog abandoning its blind owner,
crosses the road at the usual zebra.From "A Part of Speech"
Joseph Brodsky
In any case, I am not sure if I like air-conditioned Strand. That means I will have to contend with other people when I shop for books this summer. Granted, people buying books preserve the place (already the annex near the sea port closed down...), but I'd rather deal with the heat and the stuffiness (of the air) than (stuffy) people. You have to be oddly assertive at the Strand, especially near the popular fiction stands. Are you going to progress around the corner and check out all the books that are displayed so that you can give yourself a chance to pick up that book you always wanted to read for five dollars, or are you gonna back off because there's three other people in front of you? I never had a problem though--I can usually squeeze by. Besides, you can always escape temporarily down to the psychology section that lines a wall in the basement. The shelves tremble every few minutes as a train pulls out of the Union Square Station and you feel so safe from the crowd in the underbelly of the city sustained by dusty psychoanalytic writings.
So okay, I will probably cope with the air-conditioning, but I don't know if I can if they add a cafe and comfy chairs.
The summer isn't quite here yet. I still have maybe a month of reprieve form the heat, the people and the mosquitoes. I will miss the days when it's still a bit chilly in the morning. I will miss reading under a comforter and wearing knitted things. But maybe reading at the beach a few times will make me forget and abide by the summer rules.
20 May 2009
signs of aging...
You have to please excuse me and perhaps indulge me in some spring whining. The gist of it every year is that I feel old. Oh the many signs are there. And indeed it's a spring time ritual of mine to list them. This year is especially hard though: alas the effects of the accumulating years has finally seeped into my reading life where I thought I could forever be young.
Big shock I was not ready for: I have read a memoir, a MEMOIR!, written by someone approximately my age. Here I am thinking my life hasn't really begun, and someone has written a memoir about our generation. The someone happens to be Sloane Crosley. The book is called: I was told there'd be cake. And okay, she's actually a bit older than me and the book is excellent... but still. Perhaps growing old means finding an increasing number of new novels that allude to times and events that one has lived through. One day, the Philip Roths of our generation will pop out, every few years, books about coming of age with too many possibilities, no marketable skills, and the facebook.
And no longer deniable: I accept that there are a finite number of books I can read in my lifetime. Seems so obvious to me now, but even five years ago, I didn't really believe I won't get to read everything. Before you consider me totally silly, ask yourself this: when you were in fifth grade, did you think you can be done with reading? Did you even think you will make it to the 30 minute mark assigned to you to read? I know the logic is pretty clear. Human beings are mortals; mortals can only read a finite number of books; I am a human being; ergo, I can only read a finite number of books. A young heart, however, is not ready to accept certain logical conclusion. So it makes me feel really sad (and old) that I accept I will one day read my last page.
And there you have it. Maybe a life is a sum of pages read: You accumulate the pages and then you die. I better choose wisely.
Big shock I was not ready for: I have read a memoir, a MEMOIR!, written by someone approximately my age. Here I am thinking my life hasn't really begun, and someone has written a memoir about our generation. The someone happens to be Sloane Crosley. The book is called: I was told there'd be cake. And okay, she's actually a bit older than me and the book is excellent... but still. Perhaps growing old means finding an increasing number of new novels that allude to times and events that one has lived through. One day, the Philip Roths of our generation will pop out, every few years, books about coming of age with too many possibilities, no marketable skills, and the facebook.
And no longer deniable: I accept that there are a finite number of books I can read in my lifetime. Seems so obvious to me now, but even five years ago, I didn't really believe I won't get to read everything. Before you consider me totally silly, ask yourself this: when you were in fifth grade, did you think you can be done with reading? Did you even think you will make it to the 30 minute mark assigned to you to read? I know the logic is pretty clear. Human beings are mortals; mortals can only read a finite number of books; I am a human being; ergo, I can only read a finite number of books. A young heart, however, is not ready to accept certain logical conclusion. So it makes me feel really sad (and old) that I accept I will one day read my last page.
And there you have it. Maybe a life is a sum of pages read: You accumulate the pages and then you die. I better choose wisely.
23 April 2009
april the poetry month.
One of my pet peeves is hearing the phrase, "i don't get poetry." I know why this phrase bothers me so much: I know exactly what that means. As much as I like feigning ignorance and giving quizzical looks every time I hear someone say that they won't read poetry because they don't "get it," I must admit to often feeling the same. I like the sound of but truly don't get Sylvia Plath. I read Ariel like my Spanish Lit books: in awe of the sound and certain clever phrases but knew deep inside that I would have to read the English translation before class and really I can't major in Spanish Lit.
But it still annoys me when people say that. I think people don't give poetry a chance. It really puzzles me how avid readers who read through many awful fiction and nonfiction don't try more than three poets.
Okay, poetry does make us feel guilty. It's a prime suspect for inspiring, "oh I really should've read this person" feeling. And it also makes otherwise over-educated people feel stupid: "I don't get exactly what this poet is saying here and I have a nagging feeling that every other word is some sort of a metaphor I can't get." Now in our culture, it's okay to not get the first law of thermodynamics because, ya know, there's calculus involved and such, but poetry is just a string of words and not "getting it" makes people feel illiterate.
But how can those same people then go and stare at paintings at museums for modern arts in various cities. Do you "get" those? Why is poetry different? Why don't we just enjoy poems instead of trying to get them as if we were desperately trying to be a part of an inside joke? Even though I often don't "get" poetry, I find that poems are all I can read when it becomes really difficult to read anything or when I feel especially despondent precisely because I don't have to "get" it.
Anyway, I am being bitter and judgmental because I can afford to be. I have a friend who includes a poem every once in awhile in his email (bry), another who handpicks poems for me to try according to poems I already like (alice, my personal netflix-like poetry recoomandation system), and a friend who sends me a book of Joseph Brodsky poems through snail mail (natalie). So it's easy for me to find poems to try.
But if you don't have friends who offer poetry, you can try The New Yorker. In fact, one of the poems I told Alice about was found in the magazine. Or you can try "The Writers' Almanac" with a daily poem on WNYC at 8 PM (precisely!). Okay, these sound like awful suggestions, sorry, but I hope people find poems they like if not for the intrinsic value of poetry in their lives then to feel less guilty about not having a favorite poem.
It's spring; it's the national poetry month; it's time to not suffer from a sense of low self esteem due to being word-challenged.
For me, I am celebrating the national poetry month (really for the first time in my life) by trying a new poet. After reading a NYT magazine article comparing Emily Dickinson to Twits, I thought she would be perfect for someone like me who is concentration-challenged. But when I tried to read her, I found that I didn't, what-do-ya-know, "get her." So I tried Joseph Brodsky (thanks again Natalie) and oh I get him, sorta, and I definitely enjoy reading him.
But it still annoys me when people say that. I think people don't give poetry a chance. It really puzzles me how avid readers who read through many awful fiction and nonfiction don't try more than three poets.
Okay, poetry does make us feel guilty. It's a prime suspect for inspiring, "oh I really should've read this person" feeling. And it also makes otherwise over-educated people feel stupid: "I don't get exactly what this poet is saying here and I have a nagging feeling that every other word is some sort of a metaphor I can't get." Now in our culture, it's okay to not get the first law of thermodynamics because, ya know, there's calculus involved and such, but poetry is just a string of words and not "getting it" makes people feel illiterate.
But how can those same people then go and stare at paintings at museums for modern arts in various cities. Do you "get" those? Why is poetry different? Why don't we just enjoy poems instead of trying to get them as if we were desperately trying to be a part of an inside joke? Even though I often don't "get" poetry, I find that poems are all I can read when it becomes really difficult to read anything or when I feel especially despondent precisely because I don't have to "get" it.
Anyway, I am being bitter and judgmental because I can afford to be. I have a friend who includes a poem every once in awhile in his email (bry), another who handpicks poems for me to try according to poems I already like (alice, my personal netflix-like poetry recoomandation system), and a friend who sends me a book of Joseph Brodsky poems through snail mail (natalie). So it's easy for me to find poems to try.
But if you don't have friends who offer poetry, you can try The New Yorker. In fact, one of the poems I told Alice about was found in the magazine. Or you can try "The Writers' Almanac" with a daily poem on WNYC at 8 PM (precisely!). Okay, these sound like awful suggestions, sorry, but I hope people find poems they like if not for the intrinsic value of poetry in their lives then to feel less guilty about not having a favorite poem.
It's spring; it's the national poetry month; it's time to not suffer from a sense of low self esteem due to being word-challenged.
For me, I am celebrating the national poetry month (really for the first time in my life) by trying a new poet. After reading a NYT magazine article comparing Emily Dickinson to Twits, I thought she would be perfect for someone like me who is concentration-challenged. But when I tried to read her, I found that I didn't, what-do-ya-know, "get her." So I tried Joseph Brodsky (thanks again Natalie) and oh I get him, sorta, and I definitely enjoy reading him.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)