I think it's strange how much I wanted to start writing this blog, and how it's been a whole week now with no entries. Does nothing actually happen in my life? Don't answer that, or do... Sure things happen, but none of them feel inherently interesting.
I spent a lot of time waiting for doctors on Tuesday, and used the time to start reading Of a Fire on the Moon by Norman Mailer. Mailer intrigues me, but I've never read any of his books before. The prose is so dense and interior, that in my heightened state of "please anything distract me" every word stood out and seemed brilliant. Now, continuing to read on the train or in the theater it seems far more muddled. I need to chew each phrase thoughtfully, and the commute is much more conducive to literary gorging. I suspect Of a Fire isn't going to make a great traveling book for my July Chicago trip either for just the same reason. You can't read a paragraph, look around, notice something, and go back to your reading without loosing the thread of it. Maybe I'm wrong about that though: sometimes place and travel inform the reading in unexpected ways....
I had my first experience with the Mid-Manhattan Library last week too, speaking of place informing the reading. It's a strange world over there. The building is a beautiful monument to the published word, but I found it frustrating. Not only does the collection not circulate, but patrons can't access the books themselves. Each book has to be requested by filling out a form and submitting it at the proper window in the proper room. Some books are visible on their shelves around the room, but they're behind low rails and velvet ropes. Here's from the notes I made while waiting for my book to be delivered to me (Due to Staff Shortages, Wait for Requested Materials May Be 30 to 60 Minutes):
The building is beautiful and grand and inspiring. The brochure talks about the great democratization of knowledge, the idea being that public access to works of scholarship is societally important. ... If I am going to incorporate this history, scholarship, and critical thought into my life, it has to be in pieces, on trains, in rehearsals. ... To me, critical writing (on the rare occasions when I seek it out) is no less relevant than memoir, poetry or fiction. It can directly influence and inform daily experiences, so it is important to me to be able to live in and with the reading experience, rather than sequester myself in windowless rooms for study. I think the fluidity of information in my society has accustomed me to this, for better or worse.
In other words, give me my damn book already, because I don't have nearly the time to sit here all afternoon reading all 300 pages of it! You may have the only copy in this city, but someday I'll get a Kindle, and I'll download it, and you can keep your wait time! Ha! (Just kidding, I have no desire to ever own a Kindle. I like paper too much).
Also, my favorite part of libraries and bookstores is wandering the stacks. Not being able to do that takes all the fun out of the fieldtrip. How do you know what you want if you can't look at your options and feel them all out? (Libra what? not me ;)).
Anyway, I've now used up my extra hour, and it's time to go to the gym. It's a truly beautiful morning out.
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