A bit of nostalgia.

Okay, so I’ve been wondering about this for a couple of months now… is it just me or is the New York Times, the actual inky paper edition, smaller than before? And no, I don’t mean ‘is it thinner?’ It has been skinny for awhile… but are the physical dimensions, the width and the length (or is it the width and the height), actually smaller?? Or…of course… is it all just in my head?

I know the magazine shrunk last year… but the paper doesn’t feel as overwhelming or unwieldy anymore. It’s even submissive to the way I want it to fold… so I no longer wrestle with it….

I miss the paper, especially the main section around the holidays, when it is too fat to crisply fold. I miss the days when a day’s worth of paper felt overwhelming, and I had to turn the paper around this way and that to cut out an article for a school current events assignment. I miss the time when I saw other New Yorkers doing their elaborate and elegant NY Times origami on the train instead of starring at the manageable, portable screens.

The Idiot…

-----Spoiler Alert for The Idiot by Fyodor Dostoevsky!!-----

Finally finished The Idiot, my first Dostoevsky. For 600 pages, I prepared myself for the tragic ending I knew was surely coming. When I read the last page, however, I couldn’t make up my mind. The prince certainly ends up in a sad state, but was it an unequivocally sad ending? In a way I am more than a little relieved that the prince was spared from the weight of a crushing guilt and the transformation of a romance into a marriage.

April gilded with the verses of Emily Dickinson…

It is Day 6 of reading Emily Dickinson and I cannot keep her from seeping in. My mind is full of thoughts about firmaments and bees. Her poems are consonant with the birdies outside, which is getting me to be more partial to spring. I think everything is so beautiful reading Emily Dickinson in the sun; then she breaks my heart with poignancy of death.

April the poetry month.

Although I am inconsolably fretful about pollen and people that come with spring, I am looking forward to April the National Poetry Month. This is the second year I am celebrating the poetry month by reading a poet I have not read before (outside of class). Last year I read A Part of Speech, an anthology of poems by Joseph Brodsky, gifted to me by natalie. This year, I will be reading The Complete Poems of Emily Dickinson, edited by Thomas H. Johnson.

First I need to brag. I acquired, for two dollars, a beautiful hard cover copy of The Complete Poems of Emily Dickinson at the Mid Manhattan Library book sale. Oh I loved to go there. The collection was eclectic, and constantly changing. This of course meant you couldn’t go there with a specific book in mind, but I think that’s what made the browsing experience so magical. You look through the shelves and find some lovely books you’ve had on your wishlist either to read or to own. That book sale, however,  is no more. And it is one of those things I knew about NYC and took for granted, gone, just gone. If the Mid Manhattan Library book sale ever gets resurrected, will someone kindly let me know? I want the bargain, but I also want to go back to the city I used to know.

I couldn’t resist buying a beautiful hard cover book containing the poems of Emily Dickinson. And I did really want to read her poems and thought I would if I had the book. I am quite ashamed to report, however, that I have owned the book for awhile but hesitated reading it. The closest I got to reading Emily Dickinson related stuff was reading a fun fiction called An Arsonist’s Guide to Writer’s Homes in New England by Brock Clarke (featuring the Emily Dickinson house) and it wasn’t even really about poetry. I think what kept me from reading her poems really is all that nature in her writing. Yuck.

Lately though, I am convinced reading about nature in poetry might not be so terrible. I may even like to vicariously experience nature through poetry just as I enjoy encountering nature as long as it’s through a car window. But then again, perhaps being a total city girl who finds comfort in the jungle of skyscrapers, I lack the ability to deeply appreciate nature imagery.

Well I am about to find out! I will read 25 pages of Emily Dickinson per day and I’ll have read through The Complete Poems of Emily Dickinson by the end of the month. I am excited.

The pages accumulate and you reach the end of a book…

… or so I think. That must be true, right? A book is finite, I know.

But these days, “the ends” are quite scarce. It could be that I am reading too many books at once. It’s also my allergy fogginess. It’s become really difficult to follow a string of words. I hate it when reading becomes difficult, but this too will pass.

 

Why do I feel so great when I finish a book? A book is a terribly fickle unit anyway, one that could be any number of pages. I mean isn’t it enough to just enjoy the process of reading?? Of course reading is more essential than finishing a book. Still, getting to the last page is an affirmation that I can, not only start, but also finish something. Publishing an entry is like that too… and perhaps that is one of the main reasons why I blog and post these inane comments.

How Does a Neurotic Person Recommend a Book?: a case study.

A good friend left me with a weighty task: I was to lend him a book or two to take with him on a cruise. I can sort of fathom how this could be a simple task to some people. Why, however, pass over an opportunity to fret endlessly over the choice of books? Here is a chronicle of how I selected the books for my friend:

The number of books, above all else, must be decided on. I was very tempted to hand over a very large and onerous bundle of books containing every single book I’ve ever wanted to make him read. I mean what a great opportunity to make a friend guilty for not reading the books you loan him?? But I didn’t want to be so cruel when he was heading off to vacation. I’ve decided to be a good friend and not defer the task of narrowing down the number of books to him. I realized I couldn’t make him take more than 2 books for there are other things and people on the boat. Now to the subject matter:

I also realized I must lend him only fiction because the point of a cruise, like the point of reading (some) fiction was to escape reality. And so I eliminated, though entertaining, any Malcolm Gladwell books as well as the, not as entertaining, Rollo May books.

Of course the fiction I choose has to both be interesting and novel for him. Of course I wand to find a book or two that he would enjoy, but it also has to be a book he has not read yet. I mean the whole point of borrowing books is to read someone you wouldn’t pluck off the book shelves on your own. Furthermore, I want to seem, through my choice in books, like someone with a sophisticated taste in books. Oh the literary vanities!

Now this means I have to make quite a few tricky assumptions about what he would find to be an interesting and fun read but has not yet read yet. I understand the assumptions I make at this stage, which will become manifest in the books I loan him, can make or break a friendship. Succeed at this and you show the deep connection and mutual understand in the relationship, but fail at this and then you open up the gaps in the understanding of each other. What potential disappointment! Oh the burden! My anxiety increases with the knowledge that I now only have a couple of days to finish this task.

Some of the books I was seriously considering were: Far Afield (by Susanna Kaysen), Housekeeping (by Marilynne Robinson), and The Bell Jar (Sylvia Plath). I, however, eliminated them all because I realized: the books can’t simply be interesting; they must be happy. After all, these were books for the freakin cruise. A depressing book just won’t do. One problem: I don’t own that many happy books. Or could it be that the interesting novels are not happy? But that’s something to fret over on a different day; I still face an unfinished task!

I almost settled on a fun, psychological thriller by Agatha Christie titled Curtain. But then I came across yet another factor I had not considered before: portability. And of course my copy of this book is a hard cover. Argh! How could I have not considered this when I daily obsess over having enough portable books to sustain me on my commute??

Long at last, I decided on my two books: Northanger Abbey by Jane Austen and The Little Prince by Antoine de Saint-Exupery. I had to assume, though I really didn’t want to, that boys don’t really read Jane Austen. I also figured: even if my very literary friend had read an Austen novel, it’d be Pride and Prejudice or Sense and Sensibility. I was pretty confident that Northanger Abbey would be super novel and super fun. The Little Prince, however, I had to directly ask about. Thankfully, he hasn’t read it yet (at least in English). Isn’t The Little Prince a perfect book for travelling? I did well, didn’t I?

Unfortunately, I wasn’t quite done yet. The Little Prince was presentable, but Northanger Abbey wasn’t. The Austen novel was seriously girly looking with its varying shades of pink on the cover. So I had to cover the book with a nice piece of art paper to make it look more manly. After all, you meet people (i.e. girls) at a cruise and I wouldn’t want the book I loan him to be a girl-repellent.

 

***

 

Whew! I feel I’ve done an adequate job at this crucial test of friendship… but oh, guess what happened? We had a glorious snowstorm in NYC and I never did get a chance to loan him the two books for his trip. Well, should I lend them to him anyway??

My speech to the shelves.

Today I am your commander: you have to station yourselves in the shelves assigned by me. I choose your mates according to my whimsy. Today you will stand next to a book written about the same topic. Then you will have lots to talk, or perhaps argue, about. But then I’ll notice that the shades of purple on your spines do not quite match. It’ll bug me quite a bit to watch you standing next to each other and well, a quick swap or two, and you’ll find yourself partnered with someone else. You may not get along but you have no choice. You faithfully stand guard to make me feel safe in my fortress of bound words.

At least that’s what I’d like to think.

But of course it’s entirely possible you are inwardly seething and patiently waiting… for you know you will one day outlive your commander. I will be gone and everything about me will be in the past. You, however, will march on to the future, holding tightly to the strings of words formulated long ago. Perhaps then you will meet a kinder commander, or a more indifferent one.

Still, I am sorry to say I’d rather be an ephemeral reader than an eternal book.