On Books

Great Op-Ed in the NY Times on the future of books. To wit:

"As a technology, the book is like a hammer. That is to say, it is perfect: a tool ideally suited to its task. Hammers can be tweaked and varied but will never go obsolete. Even when builders pound nails by the thousand with pneumatic nail guns, every household needs a hammer. Likewise, the bicycle is alive and well. It was invented in a world without automobiles, and for speed and range it was quickly surpassed by motorcycles and all kinds of powered scooters. But there is nothing quaint about bicycles. They outsell cars."

There's nothing quaint about books. Yeah. I agree.

A Quote In August

"The evocation of far is a peaceful corridor paved with unflagging and tranquil faith and peopled with kind and nameless faces and voices."

William Faulkner, Light in August

Magical Reality T.V.

In anticipation of my reading One Hundred Years of Solitude, I, in my research, have looked up the term magical realism, which plays a large role in this novel. I'm not sure I entirely grasp the concept-- though I liken it to the technique in Scrubs. Perhaps it's because such things, especially in literature, never seem to strike me as odd or difficult or anything apart from reality. So to categorize it muddies my understanding of its sequellas.

And I am serious: if I should run into a unicorn while on walk, I would not be the least bit surprised. If a lamppost should turn into an elephant, I would not be surprised. If both daylight and night grow longer but the day length remains the same, I would not be surprised.

Suppose for a second that a reality television producer, fresh of his latest success of putting 6 animals (lion, zebra, fly, monkey, dog, cat) and 3 Hot People in a house for 10 weeks and allowing America to vote each one off based on a serious of challenges that involves, but is not limited to, surviving, decides to further push the limits. He or she pitches the concept of magical realism in this fashion. Assembled would be Chewbacca, Frodo, a Gummi Bear, Captain Kirk, Hari Seldon, and three randomly selected Americans who are extremely good-looking and who also think they can dance. Let the mayhem ensue!

Magical Reality T.V. : One Ring, In a Galaxy Far, Far Away, Bouncing Here and There And Everywhere, Boldly Going Where No Man Has Gone Before, uh Who's Hari Seldon? And The Hottest Contests Ever To Be See Dancing On T.V.! This Thursday @ 9pm.

Garcia Marquez would be proud.

Twenty-One, Some 50 Years Later

In lieu of my dirge on How To Read A Book, I stumbled across a piece by one of its authors, Charles Van Doren. His personage, ever since I saw Redford's "Quiz Show", has fascinated me. I am persuaded that it wasn't the pursuit of fame or greed that brought on his fall. But it was something in him, and for that he sought to make it right. I am always glad I convinced my father to rent that movie years ago.

Anyway, he penned a piece for The New Yorker recently about the saga. Can't say life has changed much with the infusion of reality television. It's greatest loss, however, has been the person of character.

Syntopical Syncretism

Call it the post-modern approach to reading, but I've been diligent recently in my approach to reading. I came across the former of the above terms while reading Mortimer Adler's How To Read A Book. Vaguely, it's about moving one's reading across like themes. It's a unique idea and I recommend it and the original book.

Now I've extended this in several ways. First I have tried to read books similar in writing style. This is one reason for my recent love of Catholic writers of the 40s, 50s and 60s. Barth, Bellows and Updike are also more alike in style than the themes of their novels belie.

Another way I've enacted Adler's idea is by researching the influences of authors I'm reading. Just yesterday I began to look into Umberto Eco's greatest influence, Jorge Luis Borges. He's quite a fantastical and unique and challenging writer. For O'Connor I've delved into Faulkner and read up on Hawthorne.

By doing this I've stumbled across another term: syncretism. O'Connor and Faulkner posses widely different world views. Borges and one of his more profound influences, Chesterton, differ exponentially in their respective world views. Not that I am trying to reconcile these authors but it's certainly challenging to recognize the different approach that is at once alike and different. Like seeing an object from all sides simultaneously and managing to maintain a sense of wonder about it.

Pretty sure none of this makes sense, that it's just ramblings. I'm piecing the idea slowly together. Combining it and, at times, justifying it I suppose. The bottom line is that I notice I am drawn to the syntopical syncretism in Art. From Springsteen to O'Connor, Borges to Chesterton.

Not sure if Adler had this in mind, but I have him to thank for issuing that first challenge.

Missing: 33 Pages

So I'm in the midst of a book the other night when I turn the page. The proceeding sentence makes no sense. Maybe I missed something. I did not. It still doesn't make any sense. Turns out (ha!) that the next page is not in fact the next page but some 33 pages into the book's future. A quite unfortunate turn of events that required me to start a completely new book. Seriously, who just removes 33 pages? Because they were removed; no obvious tearing, fraying, just meticulously extricated from the book.

So I'm looking for 33 pages. From 120 to 153. Love in the Ruins. If anyone's seen them.

But hey, at least I'm not missing this.

On Putting Down A Book

I've never been one who believed finishing a book proved something. I'm from the Costanza school. The most recent evidence to this belief was Dune, which I gave up on after 150+ pages. As a fact, there have actually been very few books I have given up, sent away to the literary bench.

Thursday I was prepared to give up on Atonement. I knew the plot (or lack there of, depending on the critic). I had seen the movie. Though that's a simple reason for abandonment, sometimes the writing pulls you in despite your objectivity. But such wasn't the case here either. I kept reading. Over the weekend I poured into 300+ pages. And I'm left with the same conclusion: I can put this book down and very much want too. It isn't particularly great. It's good. Introspective. A character study. But it's too extraneous. Too preachy and condemning. Too much prose devoid from substance. And most of all it's too long. At almost 500 pages and rather rambling around it's simple central thesis, you'd think it'd be shorter.

All of this is sufficient a reason, in my belief, to abandon the book. But why can't I? Why do I feel the need to finish this book? I want to move on. I've got another book lined up on the bookshelf, Love in the Ruins by Walker Percy, with a great opening line:

Now in these dread latter days of the old violent beloved U.S.A. and of the Christ-forgetting Christ-haunted death-dealing Western world I came to myself in a grove of young pines and the question came to me: has it happened at last?

That's a fantastic opening line. But still I hang on to complete this book that long ago became banal. Still I hang on, not expecting any of these reason to be atoned for in the book's final pages. After the opening line of Love in the Ruins I fought every urge to keep reading. Feeling as though I was cheating something by doing that. The book, it seems, will not let me go. It's stalking me.

Actually, it's more like a song that gets stuck in your head.

Didn't know books could do that.

Bob Dylan: How Does It Feel To Win A Pulitzer?

So perhaps you've seen the news: Bob Dylan received a special nod from the Pulitzer Prize committee. It's the first time the award has been given to a rock musician. As I read online yesterday, this is interesting given the anti-establishment bend of the genre. It's supposed to be revolting against these high class honors and what they mean. But truthfully, there is no one in the industry more deserving of the literary merit. No one else who's body of work can be considered with the great writers. Dylan is a great writer. Despite what you may think of his voice (the Mrs can't stomach it). Despite what you may think of his music. Dylan is and was lyrically the best. On par with the prosody of the best.

Now there are other musicians who's body of work could be considered deserving of the award. Neil Young comes to mind. But most notably is Bruce Springsteen. The Nebraska album alone is a lyrical collection of short stories. Tom Joad is another astonishing musical panoply of short fiction. If Dylan, I say, then Springsteen.

Anyone else I'm missing?

Boldly Going: A Confession And Apology

It's no secret that I have always loved science-fiction. From the Chronicles to Lord of the Rings to The Space Trilogy to Star Trek to Star Wars, I have always been intrigued by forays into a realm or world or universe like and un-like our own. However, I'm discerning in my taste for sci-fi fantasy. I'm particular. Snobbish even. I don't do campy. I don't do unrealistic, if that's even possible as a prerequisite for science fiction. It's as difficult for me to explain my taste in science fiction as it is my enjoyment of science fiction.

There is an element to good science fiction, to the Asimov's out there. It consists of the same stuff of a good western movie. It entails part imagination, part familiarity, part possibility, part impossibility, part morality. It should inspire or stir or intrigue a part of us so that we can sense a bond with a story or character even though our worlds have nothing in common. A sensibility about it that allows for the individual in us to see ourselves in this world making the same decisions and mistakes even though we can't begin to imagine ourselves in a world like theirs. Good science fiction should insist upon and instill a hope in humanity.

One reason for the difficulty in ascertaining my enjoyment of it is because I don't think it's taken as a serious genre; not recognized in literature or in film. It's often stereotyped by the "nerds" and with good reason. I am not deluded in this sense -- I don't go dressing up to conventions for example. Of course, the stereotypes associated with the genre belie any credence to it and keep the enthusiasts in the closet for fear of being grouped in with the groupies. Star Trek: TNG is philosophical? Yeah, whatever. But it is. From Mills, to Kant to Plato to Sartre it's there and obvious. Also obvious: pointy ears and phasers and funny shaped beings. And for that reason you probably don't believe me.

Another confession/apology is due. To Eric: I'm sorry I made fun of you back in college when we first met and you were reading that fantasy novel series. Though it was probably campy, I shouldn't have mocked you for reading it! However, it's not like you've read another one since, so...

All this said, I've recently stumbled across a book I feel I should read (to be explained in a later post): Dune. So I'm reading it. And we'll see. Next will be the series my Dad's said I should read for forever: Foundations.

Anyway, I'd like to be able to hash out my sentiment a little better for this genre so feel free interject some thoughts into this post.

Light On The Dark Materials

So I've just finished the "His Dark Materials" Trilogy. You know, the one that caused all the uproar during Christmas when the first of the books, The Golden Compass, was released as a movie. Inspired by the "christian" controversy I picked up the books to see for myself. And they are very much heretical if you ascribe to the Christian faith. Mind you, far less heretical than Friends, CSI and any other mainstream visual nonsense we escape with. But that is neither here nor there.

The books, themselves, are not very good. Better than the previous "christian" controversy and book, The Da Vinci Code, from a literature standpoint, be assured. But not that great. The first one, honestly, I thought was brilliant. Imaginative. Large. Challenging. It was good children's literature in the vein of Potter, Dahl, L'Engle, Tolkein in scope alone. But it's ending meandered in order to set the tone for the second book and the riverbed of creativity dried up after that as the books became more about an agenda than children's novels.

I was reminded, as I finished the final book today, of my father's take on a sci-fi movie a few years back, Trip to Mars or something like that (with Lt. Dan!). At the end of the movie they were all holding hands in a circle. He fully expected, in that moment, the characters to start singing Kum Ba Yah. I felt the same way finishing the novel. It held an awfully high opinion of itself as it concluded. And the characters were metaphorically standing around the campfire of their world-view, holding hands, and singing Kum Ba Yah.

A brief example: All the characters marvel at the inter-connectedness of worlds and beings and Dust and particles and life. How slight variations on one world go the opposite in another. They are astounded by the connectedness of life still. In the same breath they admonish the view that it could have all originated from a creator being. We are all connected by luck and chance! Let's sing and hold hands and bask in this view, for it is glorious!

But my curiosity is assuaged. Though, I suspect, the controversy will not be when the second movie debuts next year. But whatever, it'll make for an entertaining movie to escape with. I consistently remain amused by how "christian" controversy is stirred up over books that are not that good.

A New Perspective on Eden

Having just completed Steinbeck's East of Eden late last evening, there hangs over me still the rush. One thing about finishing a book that is forever exciting is the prospect that finishing it is just around the corner, especially when said book pushes 600-pages. During such times, in the waning moments of the book, a new fury takes over and I read at a ridiculuous rate. It is a fault at times because I read almost impatiently, pining more to "complete" than for the story to complete itself on its own terms -- not on my own. Still, it's a furious urge to resist. For this particular novel, the exercise caught up with me and has left me unutterably winded this morning.

It seems that this particular novel is not considered his greatest. I can grant that argument. It is more refined, more particular and inevitably less a commentary than an actual story. Where Grapes of Wrath was an effort to summarize a movement, a situation, a profound hope in the human spirit -- this novel is about the human spirit itself. What it is and what makes it. How it is formed and molded and changed and yet somehow immutable since the days of Adam and Eve. It contains characters as old as time, as human as all of us; as close and familiar as a look in the mirror. Laughter and love is at its core. The sing-song of the Irish Samuel Hamilton. The cold and menace of Cathy Trask. The wisdom and strength of Lee. The naked and cold and ever human Cal Trask. And the undeniable choice before all of them.

This novel is about characters. It is about a story. It is an old story. One we are all familiar with. Yet one that seems strangely new and fresh and ancient all at once. Like a warm rain in December.

It will now sit on my bookshelf. I will walk by it often and remember it.

I will read it again. Thou mayest, at the very least.

Confession: A Lack of Books

Seems every January I discover the joy of reading anew; before it is sullied and sodded over by the perennial progressions of life. The thirst for flipping pages comes almost as fast as one can digest the previous page. It's onset is voracious and at once satiable provided the author, the work and the coffee is good. And here we are again, January 2008.

A great difficulty -- and perhaps apropos -- is the lack of a bookstore in Grove City. Our previous home proffered at least three within 2 minutes. Now it takes 20+ to the nearest one, a Barnes and Noble just past the boundaries of work. Herein lies the rub: I ventured past my normal exit for the oasis in the desert of my thirst only to leave defeated and deflated. I'm looking for Augustine's Confessions which I have not yet read (City of God, yes; Confessions, no). There was one noticeable copy in the Christianity section, a small print, small bound, fancy smancy covered booklette that could slide into my back pocket. It looked more appropriate for a coffee table or coaster than as the great work of art it is. There were no other copies. Not even the assistance of the clerk could help. Even after I explained to here my snobbishness in wanting a copy bigger than my hand, one I could curl up with and perhaps into if it were big enough, not one that required me to peer at. She understood; I think. But our search on computers and by hand in other sections like Philosophy and Literature found nothing other than that. Then I checked the biography section on a whim -- and there it was: a hardcover, Burgundy coated immaculate copy. I was elated. Until I found out it cost $30.

Now hear my hypocritical stance: I demand bookstores carry books like these and not biographies of Lorraine Bracco or 101 Cups of Spirituality that go great with a side of Chicken soup and fluff (fluff being the stuff on most of the shelves in the Christianity section). But I also demand they be inexpensive and refuse to buy them if they are not, thus decreasing the revenue they account for thus resulting in their not being ordered and stocked.

$30 though? I can get it better somewhere else. Just not in Grove City.

So for now, in the stark coldness of my desert, under this ironic January sun, I am without a book. That is my confession: I feel a little incomplete and starved, wrong even, but unwilling to see past my own palette and wallet to satiate this desire.

Three Of A Kind

The expression is that it always happens in threes. That, especially, people die in threes. Over the past week, this has been the case in the sports realm with the Blue Jays pitcher Kennedy, Sean Taylor and the first black All-American Bill Wilts. Working in news, I much more prone to mark these stories and see the correlation -- though, I think it may be merely coincidence. Sure it doesn't always happen, but it does more than you think and probably doesn't more than you think too.

But what about people being born in threes. I've got this inkling that November 29th was a favored day in heaven. On this date, C.S. Lewis, Louisa May Alcott and Madeline L'Engle were birthed. That's a lot of genius to be giving out at once, even for God. And a lot of genius in the imagination of children's literature too. It's like it wasn't given out all at once. All of them, most known for the work as a children's author with the ability to transcend the genre to appeal across generations at once.

It was like literature won the lottery that day. Or that there was an overstock, one-day sale on genius. Maybe it's Christmas on November 29th in Heaven. Or would they have Christmas?

Either way, today's greatness happens in threes.

UPDATE:

NOVEMBER 30TH: BIRTHDAYS OF MARK TWAIN AND JONATHAN SWIFT (GULLIVER'S TRAVELS). SERIOUSLY... MAYBE I'M THE ONLY ONE FASCINATED BY THIS.

UPDATE:

PROBABLY.

A Good Man Found On The Edge Of Town

I stumbled across a very interesting association between my favorite fiction writer and my favorite musician. It's a connection I never supposed or suspected, so you can expect my surprise when I discovered that Bruce Springsteen has been heavily influenced by Flannery O'Connor.

I did some more digging, finding that he was most influenced shortly before the Nebraska album. Which, if you know the album, figures. The final line of title track borrows right from O'Connor, "Sir, I guess there's just meanness in the world." He even penned a song for the epic Tracks album in 1998 called "A Good Man is Hard to Find" and captured the essence of the story fantastically.

Springsteen says it's her characters that intrigue them the most. How they are broken, shattered, imperfect and ultimately redemptive. Listening to that album, Tom Joad and Devils and Dust, you see the same dirty and dusty and grotesque characters searching for their "own piece of the cross."

That the connection was obvious was not what floored me. What got me was the roots of the connection itself. The Mrs, not much of a Springsteen fan aside from The Rising and a couple of live tracks, was also surprised to learn of the connection. And, as always, she summed it up adeptly: "You shouldn't be surprised. It just shows you're consistent in what you like." I love O'Connor's work for the exact same reasons I love Springsteen's work: Rich imagery compounded by the actual facts of the world and an attempt to redeem a little piece of it.

Suffice to say I've gone back through the albums I have and listened to them again. Unfortunately, I don't have the entire Nebraska or Joad albums, but the tracks I have make me feel like I'm in Andalusia, sitting next to O'Connor, with Springsteen spewing out throaty melodies on an old guitar. Give Springsteen credit, he's not just a political mouthed musician who plays in a cool band with a cool name and had a few hits. He's a brilliant writer. And that he was affected by O'Connor and not merely effected rises up in his body of work.

Meanwhile, reading O'Connor and listening to Springsteen at once is not possible. It's like being in the exact same place at the exact same time and trying to do something entirely different.

I Despise The Rain King

Not the song. I actually like the song. I was hoping it would play in my head as background to the novel Henderson The Rain King by Saul Bellow. Instead, I've been unable to drown out the metaphorical noises of my banging my head against the wall. I'm doing it, however, to the tune of The Rain King, so that's something.

Ever been caught in a book you can't get out of? One you have to finish only because it's required by some person or class? This is where I'm at. I love reading. Love to open a book, sit down, shut-up and read. I dream about reading at work. Looking forward to going home, when everything is over for the day, and beginning a new book, finishing one I've started or re-reading that last chapter because something struck my fancy. But not this book. Not this horrible, horrible book.

It won the Nobel Prize for Literature at some point in the 60s or 70s (I don't even care about when it did; I don't care about being factually correct about this terrible book). I can see why, given context of the social and literary situations of that era. It's a book about discovery; about finding oneself. But the lead character is a misanthrope; an unlovable Falstaff. One who is subject to haughty prose about nothing really, no fluid thoughts or developments of ideas, just ramblings that occasionally make sense, but not so much sense that you remember it after you close the book.

It's taken me two weeks (of course, it's the playoffs and I rarely get much done anyway) to finally see the end. Of course, the end is more like a desert oasis because in no way am I finished with this book when I finish it. Then I must write a paper, and explore the deeper significances of this terrible, meaningless work. One that takes itself much to seriously, much to important. There's humor in it, meaning in it, but it's ultimately humorless and without meaning. And that sentence is indicative of every sentence in the book.

Sorry for the rant. It's just that "When I think of heaven (Deliver me in a black-winged bird) I think of flying down into a sea of pens and feathers". None of which could ever be used to write this book.

On Art

So this is an interesting article. And reading it is almost as big a waste of time as the reason for the article. Finally, one of the world's great mysteries has been solved. But if not for a simple quote near the end of it, reading it would have been a complete waste of time.

"Art is never completed, it is only abandoned."

DaVinci said this. Fascinating idea. And I don't think we're solely talking about painting either. Any kind of art. Music, literature, it all goes un-completed. Ends up like the house on the end of the road with the overgrown shrubbery.

About 6 months ago I ordered a book, Art and Scholasticism. It was a profound influence on some writers I had stumbled across (Ironically it has gone abandoned on my shelf if only because I mistakenly ordered a flimsy bound, large print edition. I'm particular about few things, I like my books to feel a certain way). I think, perhaps soon, I shall pick it up. Possibly there lies an answer to the profundity of the aforementioned quote.

Until that time, I remain challenged by this quote. Can art ever be completed? I suppose in the sense that art is to be interpreted it can never be complete. There will always be a new perspective that can be offered as to the beauty of a particular work of art. But for the artist, must they simply abandon the task? Must they put down the pen, the chisel, the paintbrush and leave? It's been my experience that this is necessary more for the sanity of the artist who tend to go rather Type A on their "masterpieces". But lest we think less of them, consider this: artists (in the broader sense to include writers, musicians and the like) have stumbled into a vast ocean, an uncharted and unmapped region. Pulling from it colors, experiences, rhyme and the details of this magnificent place. Translating and transliterating it to us, the meager peons. And here's where I find this quote so apropos, the artist is just "stretching himself in this world". And it is a vast, nearly infinite world he has just sought to "get his head into". If such is the case, I suppose we cannot expect the artist to complete his work.

But to say it's abandoned. Or must be abandoned. That's a brilliant quote from a brilliant artist.

Residents of Mudville

So that's how I feel today. Like a resident of some imaginary town in a children's poem.

"Upon that stricken multitude grim melancholy sat"

But with Beckett going tomorrow night...

"A straggling few got up to go in deep despair. The rest
Clung to that hope which springs eternal in the human breast"

For when the dust lifts....

Character's Welcome

I just finished E.M. Forster's "Howard's End" this week. Cover to cover in about two days. Easily a great work of literature. From the themes, plot, prose, issues and characters, it's a thrilling read. And having finished that book and the class that accompanied it, I picked up a 'fun' read at Borders yesterday -- along with a new pair of jeans! (Those I didn't get at Borders, however).

The new book is called "Genius" by Harold Bloom. It's about whom he thinks are the geniuses of literature. By no means a comprehensive list, but an intriguing list nonetheless. I've only gotten through the pater familias of authors: Shakespeare. If, for no other reason, we can consider him the greatest literary genius because of the characters he gave us. From Falstaff to Lear, Rosalind to Juliet, Iago to Claudius, Hamlet to Edmund -- Shakespeare "invented" the human character in literary form. No other before did quite what he did. And we all stand on his shoulders now. Also, of note, another intriguing entry into the creative superpower of his mind, was his ability to churn out comedies and tragedies. And not Jim Carrey level either. Hamlet. As You Like It. Twelfth Night. King Lear. Henry IV. Love's Labour's Lost. Absolutely startling how great he was.

Anyway, these memorable characters got me thinking about Leonard Bast, the cast-off character in Howard's End. I felt it then and feel it these days later. His character was tragic in the most tragic sense. Profound in the most profound. And to think, Forster only turned out one of these greats. Shakespeare had how many?

Characters are fascinating foci of novels. Great novels move along through them, the bad, populist one's disregard them. Same with movies. Same with music. Same with life. It's the characters we cling hard and fast to. It's not the plots, the twists, the tragedies, it's the characters. And I don't suppose I truly ever thought about it like that before.

By the way, among all of Shakespeare's characters, Falstaff is my favorite. In fact, when I took a class on The Bard in college, our professor challenged us to pick themes from the plays we'd read (Love's Labour's Lost, King Lear, Henry IV) and create a presentation. Our group chose Time as our theme. Don't worry, we used that record of Hootie and the Blowfish. But I had the great honor of portraying Falstaff's view of Time in a famous monologue. And to be true to Falstaff, I did the monologue on the toilet a la Ian McKellen and the urinal in Richard III. We got an "A". My professor, admitting my interpretation was correct on Falstaff when pushed, had trouble seeing his most beloved character portrayed as such. What can I say, I'm a character alright.

Dark Nights

Read an interesting article this morning on a forthcoming book about Mother Teresa. The author and point of the book seems to be surprised that such a woman struggled with her faith so deeply. It recounts years of darkness in her spiritual walk. They even get, in the article, a psychologist to explain such a struggle.

That's the thing about faith, and I think the precis of this book gets at it. It's not easy. It's not a one-way ticket to spiritual bliss. "I have faith and all is well!" That's not faith. Not the faith I know. Not the faith I have. It constantly comes under suspicions. Is constantly examined and tried and found wanting. Recedes into dark corners of wariness. Undergoes this "dark night of the soul."

This "revelation" doesn't revolutionize my opinion of her. Doesn't occur a polar shift. I don't go around thinking now that "Wow she really struggled with her faith." Christ struggled with his faith. We are all Jacob's wrestling with God in this world, in our own Peniels. In this time of prosperity gospels and "faith is easy" mentalities, this will be a refreshing examination of proper notions of what it means to have faith.

Many will see it but a commentary on wacko religious belief. Evidence of opiates for masses.

Then I'll have what she's having.

Read: Close Call

The latest book I've gone through: Howard's End. I'm still digesting it. Fantastic novel. But I was disturbed. Because I've had to read it at a furious clip (read: less than two days) to get my paper in reasonably late. In order to accomplish that, I've had to read whenever and wherever I could. As it's not always fashionable or appropriate to pull out a book and start reading, I discovered another option I swore I'd never institute: reading on the computer.

There's a lot to be said for the intangible tangible quality of reading a book. Of holding the words in your hand. Connecting to them physically as you attach yourself to them mentally. There's certainly a transitive property conveyed by the words through holding them in your hands. But as I soon discovered, I was reading more efficiently on the computer. I was distraught.

Until last night. With some 80+ pages to plow through (mind you this is not fun reading per say, this is active reading, having to memorize sections, make notes, leave myself opportunity to effectively write a 30pg paper. In other words, I'm not reading Harry Potter) I was worried. Would I have to use the computer to be assure that I'd get it finished? That I wouldn't fall asleep?

A cup of coffee in hand, I got through it in less than 3 hrs. Not only did I get through it, but I felt like I actually finished it. That I physically and mentally conquered it. I was awake and alive and energized. So much so that I began writing the paper immediately. Reading on a computer screen doesn't give you that important sense of physical accomplishment. I spend a good deal of time on the computer, reading and writing.

But with books, it's different. I can't do to them what I've done to my music.

And for now, I don't have to. Until I procrastinate another paper. Another book.