A lazy Saturday afternoon…

I have felt a tug or two but never a compulsion to read The Lovely Bones, Revolutionary Road, Twilight, or any other book before the movie version premiered. Still, I’m extremely annoyed with myself for not being able to pop in the 1995 Ang Lee directed “Sense and Sensibility” into the DVD player because it’s taking me a ridiculously long time to finish the book. I bought the movie at a great bargain weeks ago thinking that I’ll see the movie very soon when I finish reading the book. The DVD has been starring at me in its pristine, transparent wrapping, kind of judgmentally and impatiently.

Oh but it has become an event to read Jane Austen for me ever since I bought  the novels that came all bound together in a very pretty but unwieldy tome. Yes, it was one of those “complete works” door stopper. I love the ornate book, and I thought it a great idea at the time to get the enormous book since I had a great desire to consume all Jane Austen books and I can accomplish that task from one book. But since the book is heavy and entirely not portable, I don’t open the book in proportion to how much I love to read Jane Austen.  But today, I let tea in Alice’s lovely New Orleans teacup settle me into Sense and Sensibility, concerning myself with the frustrations of Elinor’s life. The hot weather outside also deterred me from reading some tiny book outside. I’d rather escape to Jane Austen world and deal with the living things in its many gardens than contend with the sweltering summer heat outside. What a blessing it is to be able to sit around on a Saturday afternoon sipping tea and sliding into Sense and Sensibility!

Dickinson is for the spring.

I started reading Emily Dickinson in April, when spring was the only fathomable season, to celebrate the poetry month. Today, a weekend away from the official beginning of the summer, I have finished my book of Emily Dickinson, all 1775 poems. Summer is my least favorite time of the year when the humidity outside matches the one in my mind, intensifying the stickiness I actually feel. There are people and other living things to contend with everywhere. So although I am kind of impressed with myself for having read all of Dickinson poems, coming to the end of that gray tome is quite sad.

The poems were so effective that just reading them would make me sneeze. But my sinus is slowly chilling out, and I am shedding my knitted hand warmers. I guess it’s time to stop reading about the raiment of nature and taunting eternity and get into my sluggish summer reading. 

Defying expectations

When you discover a surprising aspect to a person you thought you had all figured out, it can be pleasant or disturbing. Same goes for books. Books often take us on unexpected journeys, the kinds you couldn’t have envisioned just by looking at the cover or reading the author’s previous works. Readers love the thrill of finding worlds they know were previously unfathomable before and often find themselves in intriguing and fantastic realms.

Then there are books that take you on journeys you wish you had opted out of. I distinctly remember the disappointment and confusing I had endured in the seventh grade when I thought I had found a book in the vein of the beloved Charlotte’s Web. The cover had pictures of farm animals and the petite volume looked so approachable even shelved in the classics sections. Of course the book was Animal Farm and my middle school self kept wondering why the animals are sort of twisted and mean.

I had miscalculated again just last week. Remembering I had liked reading “No Exit” by Sartre in college, and noticing that the volume had three other plays in it, I grabbed the book for an interesting Saturday afternoon reading. I thought I would read three other plays about people sitting around in an ornate living room for all of eternity attaching words to their woes. All three plays were nothing like that.

The prose of those three plays came sharp and disturbing. I even had a nightmare about one of the plays. And I can’t decide if reading is wonderful or terrifying. What a risk we take when we follow the words on a page!

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.