Consumed.

Today I read:

USA Today Thursday, April 24, 2014: news, life, money.

New York Post Thursday, April 24, 2014

I was always too snooty to read the New York Post, but these days the Post has become a guilty pleasure-read. It is hilarious, fun, and does not make my head hurt. I feel less annoyed at the absurd world I traverse daily and all that. And it has cartoons. And sudoku. Score!

Legal Writing in Plain English: A Text with Exercises, 2nd Ed. by Bryan A. Garner

I picked this up at a real physical book store in nyc being a dinosaur I am because I thought it was going to be a special writing book. But while I was at the said physical location where you can hold the book before buying, I also should’ve read a bit of it. Then I would’ve realized that a good legal writing book is a good writing book. Actually, I have no idea what a good legal writing book is given that I don’t know anything about legal writing, but I am finding this book to be an incredible writing book about clarity of thought and elegant simplicity as the aesthetic aim of a writer of any ilk.

The New York Times Magazine April 20, 2014

Would it be possible to go do a painting on North Brother Island? And why have I never drank a bloody mary in my entire life? Am I still a real adult?

Desiring God: Meditations of a Christian Hedonist by John Piper

1L of a Ride: A Well-Traveled Professor’s Roadmap to Success in the First Year of Law School by Andrew J. McClurg

I think I can do those case brief thingies. I am kind of excited to do those. Is something wrong with me?

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Michael said during the last lecture of the year on Friday that in order to become an artist, the art student should have a life outside of school, always carry a sketchbook, and read everything. I started today to try reading everything since the advice resonates for this aspiring artist and attorney who intends on literary living. Furthermore (and more importantly?) reading is one of the least guilt inducing way to procrastinate (that is, unless you have actual assigned/obligated reading to do). And I will nurse my neuroses by keeping a record of what I read daily (let’s see how long I can keep this up) so that I can also sorta blog again.

Currently reading...

If on a winter's night
A traveler
By italo calvino

And I feel delightfully dizzy.

April the poetry month: reading Pablo Neruda’s “The Captain’s Verses.”

It’s another April which means pollen and people abound. I have been consoled, or at least distracted, by poetry.

For three years, I have been celebrating the poetry month by reading a poet I have not previously read at length. Last year I read every poem written by Emily Dickinson. Although I was highly motivated, that project took the entire spring, not just the month of April, to accomplish. Although reading Emily Dickinson made me sneeze at the contemplation of imaginary pollen, it was nonetheless a wonderful ride.

This year, I want to actually finish a book of poems in April, so I have decided to read a short book called “The Captain’s Verses” by Pablo Neruda. And frankly, that was my only consideration (the length of the book) and the constraint was to pick something lying in my house because I really couldn’t justify buying another book after my insane book shopping phase for the past couple of months (I may have a problem here, people).

I picked up “The Captain’s Verse” at a used bookstore back in college when I was at the height of my love of Spanish literature. So one unexpected treat this year was that I had selected a book with two languages, the original Spanish poem juxtaposed to its English translation.

So I found myself reading Spanish again after many years of hiatus. And once I got over the initial shock and shame at how much I had forgotten, I found myself reading the Spanish portion out loud. I love the taste of the Spanish language at the tip of my tongue. And the rhythm of the language even with my awkward pausing and pronunciation. The English translation filled in the meaning, but it was the Spanish version that I felt in my heart. Reading in a language gives you a different cardiac rhythm. And if you are one of those people who seat the soul in the heart and not in the brain, it may make perfect sense to you why engaging in a different language makes you feel like a different person…

Additions to my library: “Beat the Reaper,” “2666,” “How Fiction Works,” “The Sickness Unto Death,” and “A Book of Sleep”

A wonderful way to spend a Sunday afternoon: getting five books all for me!

I bought two novels (Beat the Reaper by Josh Bazell and 2666 by Roberto Bolano), two nonfiction essays (How Fiction Works by James Wood and The Sickness Unto Death by Soren Kierkegaard), and one picture book (A Book of Sleep by Il Sung Na). I love A Book of Sleep. Besides being super adorable, as all children’s books should be, the artwork was superbly intricate. But what compelled me to get the book is the owl character. This night owl totally resonates with me and it’s a good book to hug and comfort one’s insomniac mind at 3 in the morning.

I also considered these books but decided not to get them (this time): The Checklist Manifesto by Atul Gawande because I thought the book, although exciting, may worsen my obsessive list making nature; Outliers by Malcolm Gladwell perhaps because I am too ashamed about still not having read the book; The immortal life of Henrietta Lacks by Rebeccas Skloot because maybe I am being cheap and waiting for the paperback edition to come out; and All things Shining by Hubert Dreyfus and Sean Dorrance Kelly because when I am truly honest with myself, even the prospect of reading this well-reviewed and serious book gives me a headache. Besides, having already chosen The Sickness unto Death, I didn’t want to parent another philosophy book.

Then I noticed that every book I bought that day (with the exception of the children’s book) have some sort of red in the cover. I wonder if those four got picked and not the others mainly because, hmm, the covers match and create a nice visual set. Did I pick my books ultimately based on their covers? The calculations a reader makes when selecting books to buy may be complex (someone should do a study on this), and it is often an unconscious, arbitrary process. But I believe the desire to create an aesthetically pleasing set plays a significant role. A support for this random thesis: there WAS an alternate green cover for Beat the Reaper but I got the red one even though green is my favorite color. And looking back, the books I buy together tend to go together. I like to set new books on my coffee table and just stare at it for a few days, maybe take some photos, before giving them permanent homes on my bookshelf.

Oh but before granting permission to gift myself with new books, I did make a self-promise not to start reading a new book until I finish a book I am currently reading. This, of course, is to avoid reading ten books at once. I read multiple books at a time. I don’t recommend this to everyone, but it works for me with my lack of concentration and promiscuous interests. Also, it gives me the only chance to really commit to and finish reading long books (as defined by me to be any book over 500 pages). Anyway, I finally finished Descarte’s Error and allowed myself to start How Fiction Works.

And what a treat that book is! Admittedly, I wanted to own How Fiction Works more than actually wanted to read it. It’s a pretty petite book and I really like the cover and the font and the paper. But I was afraid such a literary book may be too abstract for me. It seemed like something my friends who major in English and see a metaphor every other word might read. But it’s not! I mean it is literary and academic, but the writing is so clear, so unpretentious and so captivating that you simply cannot put it down. I pick up the little volume meaning to attempt it in bite size pieces, but cannot put it down. The great mystery of fiction unfolds layer by layer with rhythmic writing that never loses momentum. What an addictive little book. I chide myself for not reading it earlier.

Now a little mishap. I do not keep books in little bubble wraps. I believe that a book should be read, and in that process, it acquires character… via little rips, and folds, and smudges. But I still go through the pile looking for the most pristine copy at the bookstore because, oh I dunno, I think a book should acquire personality and become unique only through use as a reading material, a pillow, or an instrument to avoid eye contact in public. So as I was looking for the most perfect copy of some book, I drop the copy I had picked earlier of How Fiction Works. And it was quite an unfortunate drop: the cover folded. Eek! I bought that copy though because 1. I think that’s the right thing to do; but 2. I figured I had already picked it, and so committed myself to that copy. I couldn’t orphan that book even if the store had let me… it was already mine. Since then, the book has gotten other signs of uniqueness. The cover is peeling… and there is a little hole in the back cover, probably acquired as it tumbled around my gigantic bag. But it’s mine mine mine.

Will these books outlive me as children generally outlive their parents?

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.

Currently reading: “Far Afield” by Susanna Kaysen

Far Afield by Susanna Kaysen is a great example of the kinds of book I was hoping my 2010 literary resolution would allow me to read. I owned this book since my second year in college but I am only now reading it as my current portable book to read on the public transit. This is also my fourth and favorite anthropological novel I’ve read so far.

I did twice before try reading this book but I found it impossible to get past the dreary and slow beginning.  There was also the issue of wrong expectations. The first time I tried reading the book was immediately after I bought it. And the sole reason for buying this book was that it was a Susanna Kaysen novel, the author of Girl, Interrupted. Since I loved her memoir, I somehow expected, despite the blurb in the back, that it’d be another coming of age book portraying psychological angst. Reading the first 20 pages or so not about that, therefore, has been disappointing. All I felt reading the beginning was an overwhelming sense of grayness coming off the pages and permeating reality. So I don’t really blame my younger self for not reading on to find out that this book was precisely about coming of age and psychological angst of the (usually intelligent) young people.

I couldn’t penetrate the grayness of the beginning on my second try either. But now I see that the beginning was so difficult because it was so compelling: I was transplanted into Faroe Islands feeling trapped by its coldness and humidity. Reality seemed to takes on different hues like their “unnatural” sun. Susanna Kaysen’s writing is so effective that I found myself travelling with Jonathan, the main character. I felt the ennui and the dread that Jonathan felt about his year ahead. All of this made me want to close the book only if to escape this world, and so I did not succeed finishing the book on my second try either.

Oh but on my third try, I kept reading, perhaps because I started this time with an adjusted set of expectations, but more likely because I was stuck on the train with only this book and I didn’t want to make eye contact with the other New Yorkers. And at this moment, I empathized with Jonathan, although he was a little arrogant in his youth and also a bit spoiled, because I, like him, wanted to avoid the very people I was sharing a city with. And so I was hooked.

This story is unlike the other three anthropological novels I’ve read so far. Instead of meeting a young protagonist anthropologist thirsty for knowledge and (more or less) eager to go native, Jonathan, our thesis researching novice anthropologist, feels more ambivalent about becoming a participant observer. Yet he gets sucked in and even in the thickness of his involvement with the culture, Jonathan has doubts, fears, and still continuing and consuming ambivalence about the whole anthropological enterprise. It was refreshing to finally meet a more believable grad student who seems too well read, too neurotic, and too young.

And Susanna Kaysen doesn’t disappoint in writing another psychological story. The acute observations I loved in Girl, Interrupted are what made me feel a connection with Jonathan. I especially loved the inner dialogues Jonathan had with his overly academic self, overly critical self, overly untrusting self, and finally a self that resigns himself to the conditions, both glorious and pathetic, of life itself. I ended up rooting for him but found the book too depressing at times since Jonathan’s problems can so easily be generalized to the human condition I am trying to ignore in my youth.

Jonathan’s way of making all the concerns of the twenties abstract and academic especially rings true with me since I as well as a few close friends of mine have a tendency to trap ourselves that way. Is making everything abstract our way of avoiding life itself? Well then, perhaps we need an awakening similar to Jonathan’s filled with poop, blood, and animal slaughter, essentially a confrontation with the realities of living outside our books. 

An addition to my library: “The Knitter’s Book of Yarn: the ultimate guide to choosing, using, and enjoying yarn” by Clara Parkes

A very exciting addition to my library, with the help of lovely Alice, is a very pretty book about yarns I’ve been coveting for many months. No I did not break my 2010 literary resolution—this book was acquired back in Dec. I, however, have only now started to read the book.

In The Knitter’s Book of Yarn: the ultimate guide to choosing, using, and enjoying yarn, Clara Parkes patiently teaches the reader about yarns handknitters would encounter from the fibers themselves to the end product in skeins. The book contains a lot of useful, but not an overwhelming dose of, information about yarn fibers, production, and quality. I especially appreciate her explanations on how to match the fiber content and the weight of a yarn with a specific pattern (design), a task that is both exciting and daunting for a novice knitter. The book makes me a more knowledgeable matchmaker for my next project. This, I think, explains and excuses the fact that the patterns in the book aren’t super exciting or novel. If you read the pattern notes, you can learn a lot about how to pair a pattern to a yarn.

Oh and of course, I enjoy this book a lot because I love the construction of the book itself: a delightful cover (featuring yarn flowers!); a bright orange inside cover; thick papers inside that are perfect for underlining and note taking. I did, however, wish there were more photos of the yarns/fibers themselves and illustrations of some of the concepts mentioned, for example, showing the difference between a woolen vs. worsted spun yarns.

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This is the second book I own that I would consider domestic, containing knowledge that every girl even a few generations would consider common knowledge but completely mysterious to me and my peers. My other domestic book is a comprehensive guide on how to keep house: Home Comforts: The Art and Science of Keeping House by Cheryl Mendelson.

I am not required to keep house obsessively or to knit. And I do wonder if I get excited about yarns because it’s a hobby and not an obligation. If the many years I logged in the classroom involved learning practical things, would these mundane knowledge about keeping house and fiber choosing be horribly boring to me? Well, the only way to find out is to make math optional and see if kids clamor to buy up calculus books and have integral sessions at Starbucks.

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This yarn book is also one of those books that can only be appreciated by readers with a certain amount of experience. While reading this book, I frequently told myself how wonderful it would’ve been if I had read this book back when I first started knitting. This book could’ve saved me from some bad yarn purchases or inappropriate yarn pairing to a pattern. Oh but I should not kid myself, for no, I would not have been able to understand this book if it weren’t for my awful mistakes with yarns. If I had no experience touching different fibers and puzzling over them, the discussion on fibers would be meaningless. And if it weren’t for all the disastrous yarn/pattern pairings, I would not appreciate the knowledge imparted to me.

I just have to realize that certain books can only be appreciated after accumulating mistakes. For example, I read The Elements of Style by Strunk and White back in the eighth grade and found the book awfully boring and full of information no one can possibly find helpful. I again read the book a couple of years back after I had given myself enough time to make oh-so-many writing mistakes (probably all the most egregious ones in the book). And this time I truly appreciated the advice and saw that the book was a gem. Yes, when I look at the little volume, it does sparkle happily on my bookshelf.

So mistakes are not to be feared because they make knowledge more yummy. I guess mistakes makes us more teachable too. So I am not afraid to knit or write badly. I am, however, terrified of technology. It made me feel perplexed and profoundly uncomfortable to buy a new lappy or try a USB drive for the first time. Technology is so super scary that I still have the impulse to do all my writing on my Moleskines instead of this electronic typewriter that connects to the internet. The issue is intuition. I don’t know when things go wrong and I have no gut feeling about how to fix the problems. I also don’t know how things work so everything is a profound mystery. That’s why even though I have recently started to covet an E-book reader (okay, I’ll say it—a “Kindle”), I will never be able to think of a book having a flat screen. Something about that makes me feel uneasy.

Ah, so I shall end this entry about everything and nothing. This is the result of a wicked headache that I hope will go away soon.

Jane Austen.

I am falling quite in love with Jane Austen. Although I've only read 2 of her books so far (Pride and Prejudice as a teenager and hated it; Northanger Abbey recently and loved it), I am quite positive she is one of my favorite authors. Her sentences are not elaborate and experimental like Virginia Woolf's, but I think she's got the psychology down acutely and playfully. I am already sad for my future self who has already read all of her books.

Right now, I am working through Sense and Sensibility. The characters’ Myers-Briggs personality traits are caricatured in hilarious ways. Austen makes the characters seem so human: they are terribly annoying but also so terribly vulnerable. I suppose that’s why I find myself rooting for the characters, all of them, to find true love and, ultimately, contentment. What's great about an Austen novel is I know they will have a happily-ever-after if they just hold on patiently for the last chapter.

Readings (Un)done.

It’s December. And although there is a whole lot of marketing to distract us, it’s really hard to not to ignore, which we’ve actually been able to do quite successfully all year, the things we haven’t accomplished for this year. Case in point: the books I have planned to read this year yet have not gnaw on me.

Some of the books I haven’t finished do not upset me terribly. I am perfectly okay with myself, for example, for not finishing Home Comforts: The Art & Science of Keeping House by Cheryl Mendelson. I can become more domestic next year. Besides, the only person I know who has read this book through is Esther.

Oh but Jane Austen! She bring me back to June of this year, the month I’ve even named the Jane Austen Month. At the end of Spring, I, so full of promise for the year, purchased an elaborate and beautiful volume containing every Jane Austen novel. Half a year later, I now have to admit to having gotten more use out of the book adjusting the fan height in my room than turning its pages.

Feeling rather dejected and upset at myself, I started reading the Austen book again last month. The beauty and the clarity of her writing makes me feel even worse: How could I have deprived myself only because it hurts my wrist to hold up this mammoth book!

Well, I am not sure if I can start 2010 having read all of Austen novels, but hope to make a dent in the anthology this month as I move on to feel guilty about other previously forgotten but now remembered old year’s resolutions.

An Addition to my Library

Some lovely additions to the bookshelf with great deals from Strand:

The Faith of a Wrter: Life, Craft, Art by Joyce Carol Oates.

Fieldwork by Mischa Berlinski

Such beautiful spines! Too bad they won’t go together on the bookshelf.

I already read the Joyce Carol Oates book. It was very exciting reading her for the first time. The Faith of a Writer is a great gem that gave an insight into the mind of a prolific writer. I can’t wait to read her fiction.

I am currently reading Fieldwork. Unfortunately, since that is currently my “carry on public transportation to avoid people” book, it is no longer in the pristine condition depicted in the photo. It is a very clever book though. It’s not simply an ethnographic novel, but also a travelogue and a mystery. About 1/3 way through and reading about a thoroughly fascinating missionary family.

Reading: A Tale of Two Cities (Charles Dickens)

Alas, it is impossible to knit and read simultaneously. The only solace: knitting is a hobby that opens up a new genre of pretty pattern books. But still, I am a busy young lady and I never get to both read and knit to my heart's desire in one day. I tried to solve this problem by seeking out novels with a lot of knitting in the story. But I ended up on a pretty dismal path along the poorly-written-chick-lit lane. I am now mostly recovered from that experiment and finally ready to try again. This time I am starting "A Tale of Two Cities" by Charles Dickens. Here I go into the world of knitting and revolution!

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.

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.

acquisitions...

On sat.21.mar on the first day (or is it the second?) of spring 09, I have acquired the following pretty books (for between 4.95 to 6.95) at strand bookstore:

From knitting project photos

from left to right:
housekeeping by marilynne robinson
northanger abbey by jane austen
essays of e.b. white by e. b. white (mickey i am finally going to read the essay you sent me)
the learners by chip kidd

How do you know what to read?

I started reading Gilead entirely because of Alice. I've seen it in bookstores but the cover wasn't sufficiently pretty and the premise not terribly attractive. Besides, I am always skeptical of novels, probably because I have read so many terrible fiction. But anyway, Gilead was Alice's discovery. And because I like Alice, I trusted her and read the book. It is an amazing account of existence. That sounds really vague and pretentious. A better way to put it is perhaps that Gilead makes me want to write positive books and live a positive life. But the book is not cheesy. Really. Argh. It's hard to talk about Gilead. You should just read it and remember to thank Alice.

Anyway, I got to thinking about how we choose the book to read. It can be a daunting question especially for people who do not read. Whenever someone asks me how I know what to read, I give a detailed response devoid of an answer...I ramble on and on because I really should know the answer to that question. So sorry about that (esp to my students)! Well, I hope this entry sorta answers your question.

Picking books has become effortless. I have an ongoing list of books I want to read in my mind and on my Amazon wishlist (mostly because I don't trust my memory and neither should you). When I walk into a bookstore, I can identify right away the book I wanted to read, how much I wanted to read it, and whether or not the price is right.

But I guess what people are asking me is how I pick the books to go on the wishlist. Well, reading is addictive, isn't it? Initially, you have no idea what to read. But books pull you in. It's all very dangerous. You read an author you like, and then you read something else by that writer. Then you realized that you like to read a certain genre in general. You start reading the NYT book review every Sunday and drool. Your cool friend Natalie sends you Russian lit, and you are open to another genre. Then you find Alice's favorite book and you read it. Yea, that's what happens. The more you read, the more you know what book you will like before opening the book. Unfortunately, you inevitably do read a lot of bad stuff to get to this point.

And that's particularly discouraging, I know. It happens to kids. They read bad stuff (to them) in school and they think reading is bad. Adults too. They want to read. But there's a lot of bad stuff out there. They keep hearing about some awful fiction so they start reading it, get through the tediousness of it all, and well, by the end, they don't want to pick up another book.

But no, you have to plug on. Sometimes you pick a lemon, but that happens less and less as you become more experienced. I guess that statement can apply to every skill. So I guess my answer to THE question is that you kind of have to go by faith that the more you read, the more you'll enjoy reading.

Anyway, for fun, I am going to try to see how I picked the books I am currently reading and the books I have recently read:


Currently Reading:

"The Lost Art of Walking" by Geoff Nicholson: NYT Book Review + I liked one of his novel a lot + I am into walking now and thought maybe reading the book will inspire me to exercise more.

"The Nicomachean Ethics" by Aristotle: Alice got me in the mood for positive books + reading "Ours" reminded me of Natalie who asked me once if I had read this book + I really want to read Montaigne more but this book was shorter.

"Communicating Science" by Scott L. Montgomery: I like to read about writing than actually writing + book has info about academic publications that interested me.

"Interpretation of Dreams" by Sigmund Freud: I had interesting dreams + I missed reading Freud + I missed reading psychoanalytic literature.

Books I Recently Read:

"Ours: A Russian Family Album" by Sergei Dovlatov: I missed Natalie + I liked his other book + it was short and I wanted to read something that I can finish in one day.

"Gilead" by Marilynne Robinson: Alice Alice Alice.

"The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde and other stories" by Robert Louis Stevenson: Reading Poe made me want to read scary stories + the book was small and portable + felt like reading some classics.

"The Raven & Other Poems and Tales" by Edgar Allan Poe: I missed my old gothic lit class + the book had a pretty binding and nice paper.

Okay, I can obviously go on and on and on but I get the feeling that this info is interesting to no one else. My survey seems to say that a mixture of these primary factors dictate my reading choice: past reading, recommendations (friends and reviews), nostalgia, and the aesthetics of the book. Coming up with the precise formula is beyond my math skills.

spring

Casually, shee and I commented that the worst must be over. It was Saturday and I went from two to one layer of down. And yesterday, we hit 60 degrees and it was bright. I predict we'll have a stretch days when it'll be freakishly cold, but yes, the worst must be over.

As I was trading my one layer of down for the pink spring coat yesterday, I thought about a couple of other trades I am making.

I will soon be shedding Middlemarch. Yes, I am still reading that, but I read seven other books in the process, so there. It's a lovely book, in fact one of my favorite. But it's long and bulky. The book is also white like the snow. And I think my reading spirit would be lighter after I am done with the concerns of Middlemarch. I found it unbearable at times to read the book because it was so poignant, piercing and true. I think, though I like the book a lot, I am ready to trade Middlemarch for a lighter, springy, sit in a park and read in the sun kind of a book.

I am also shifting from one-skein knitting to cardigan knitting. That signals to me that the warmer days are coming when I have no incentive to produce massive amounts of hats, scarves and mittens to adorn myself as well as protect myself from the cold. Now come the lazy, unhurried knitting of the time consuming lace projects or cardigans. I bought the 101 Luxury Yarn One Skein Wonders book, a concrete proof that the knitting weather is changing. There are lots of lace patterns there that'll keep me knitting very slowly, and frogging frequently. And who cares? it's the summer. I am not in any hurry to wear any of these things...

Another very attractive book, which I will get closer to the summer is:

French Girl Knits

They have patterns for things that I imagined as a non-knitter for things that I would make if I knew how to knit. In other words, a perfect, dreamy book. There are lots of lace patterns for cardigans. Lace + cardigans = lots of very slow knitting in front of the teli, wacthing House in an air-conditioned room. I like lace knitting. You get a very hole-y diaphanous stuff that makes you feel slightly more feminine than jeans.

Ah so I am getting excited about slow knitting. I am shedding middlemarch. We've come to a full circle; the spring is here. sorta.

more self-help adventure

Ah... so it turns out, the title of that self-help book about interpersonal relationship is "how to WIN friends and influence people," not "how to MAKE friends and influence people." Now I find it a little creepy that there exists a manual for winning and influencing people. But I am going to try it anyway because the "how to stop worrying..." book was so good. And if I am truly honest with myself, I guess I would like to know how to win and influence people!

self-help books

To combat excessive and persistent anxiety, I bought myself:

How to Stop Worrying and Start Living
by Dale Carnegie.

To my mortification, about three other people, whose opinions I do care about, joined me on the trip to the bookstore. I explained that this is the first time I am getting a self-help book because I've gotten desperate about my anxiety. Thankfully, my friends were nonjudgmental. However, Arthur pointed out that I need the How to Win Friends and Influence People badly. This is not the first time someone told me about that book. Mel confirmed my suspicion that it's not a good thing when multiple people recommend that book to me.

But the point is, I realized I had inadvertently lied to my friends for it was NOT my first time buying a self-help book. In fact, looking at my reading history, I consult a self-help book quite often. The book, It's all too much: an easy plan for living a richer life with less stuff, really helped me with decluttering and organizing my things. And my last entry in this blog was kind of a review of a self help book about graduate school.

So am I one of those people now who head for the prominent self help section at Barnes and Noble? Please tell me I am not one of them... When I was there with Shee a couple of weeks ago, I saw a waste of good shelf space devoted to cheesy and colorful books for illiterate and lonely people. There were way too many chicken soup books for distinctly afflicted souls. When a salesperson came up to ask if I needed help, I wanted to ask if there was a section on anxiety self-help books. I chickened out and asked instead if the self help books were organized by subject or author.

Okay, so it seems I am the judgmental one. I admit it. Ironically though I am kind of sold on self-help books. The "Stop worrying and Start living book" was amazing and it not only helped me to feel less anxious, but made me a better, happier person. I thought the book was going to teach me how to stop worrying, but it somehow hit at all my issues from interpersonal relationships to insomnia. Now I am actually starting to accumulate a list of self-help books to read.

It can be the recession of course. I read in the paper that people focus more on self-improvement during bad economic times. It can't be that these books contain novel jems. In fact the worry book told me things I already knew or things my parents, teachers, and friends have already told me. The book, though captivating and somewhat well-written, was not literary. So what is it about (good) self help books that actually allows me to help the self?

I came up with two things:

1. It's much easier to hear things (sometimes) from a total stranger who will never see you than from earnest friends and a loving family.

2. Reading these books delude me into feeling that I am making progress towards helping the self when in reality I am further procrastinating doing something about my flaws by reading.

Okay, those two things are rather cynical. I guess I don't want to accept that I am destined to watch Dr. Phil in two years. But I have to admit that some of them actually help. The worry book is awesome. Try it. Reading self-help books is probably a better way to cope than reading depressing poetry anyway.

remedy

I had no choice but to start another book when I was already actively reading 3. Here's the thing: two of them are long and one I read only on the bus. So... it seems like I won't actually finish a book in awhile and that means I can't enter a book in my list of books read. And even though I did the calculations and decided that if I read 100 pages a day, I will read 100 books this year, I am nonetheless feeling anxious. It's a phase I know but the paranoia is definitely making me not enjoy Middlemarch as much. So the solution: Read Freud's "The Ego and the Id," a 56 page book that I intended on reading anyway.

The problem with short books, however, is that they tend to be dense. I remember in college that the 50 page reading assignments were always tougher than 250 pg reading assignments. And so it turns out the Freud book is actually quite involved. But still, I will definitely take less time to read that than Middlemarch.

So I will finish the short book, enter it in my list, confirm that I will in fact see the end of books this year, and all is well once again. It is challenging living a neurotic life.

conciseness is overrated.

Good writing should be concise and clear. Arguments should have a logical flow and a writer should weed out all unnecessary words.

Yes, I really believe that... but when I read Montaign's essays or Burton's "The Anatomy of Melancholy," I do find the rambling on and on style of writing charming. I wish I can just go on and on about my topic as well as tangential issues. Readers are not patient, I know, but reading Montaign or Burton makes me feel like I am sitting in a room with some really old dude and listening to him talk about everything. You can listen intermittently and still come away feeling wiser.

Ah... the good old old old days.