What to Read
I’m a new reader having eschewed the opportunity in my formative years, it represented engaging where I had no interest. Besides, not having the ability to remain focused for extended periods, most of the subject matter is unengaging, the train going one way at X meets another departing Y — I, not on board either well before departure.
What a shame, as I’m now discovering the genuine pleasure of the written word when wielded by those significantly more talented. Yes, at times, I’d be subdued, waking to find an author resting peacefully on my gently rising chest, having to sift through in search of that elusive sentence responsible for separating me from those ever-patient characters always at the ready.
The embryonic stage, tiptoeing, time now an ally, things to say. I have, in constant development, my style, no harm indulging in the endless, somewhat daunting, variety on offer from those having attained a level of mastery, luckily for us, with a tale to tell.
What to read? Armed with ‘must’ lists, recommendations, standing, a rack swollen, random, thoughts entrapped begging for release. Those with seemingly lesser value banished to the hard-to-reach bottom, enter the ever-present, a quick pic no aches necessary. Most establishments I frequent are not overly concerned with maintaining order, books presumably more a nuisance/necessity lacking a suitable margin. Limited patience has its perks, selections need to be made hastily. It’s incumbent on the chosen to make themselves known so I can grab ‘n go. To date it’s been good, not surprising since pretty much anything selecting me I’ve most likely not had the pleasure of, the field continually expanding. I, as a rule, buy used — once sated passed on to the next fortunate soul.
I’m enjoying this newfound adventure, learning, being entertained. My forays into the wonderful world of ‘books-on-tape’ yet to meet with the desired result although my choices may have contributed. Moby Dick, read in, if attainable, bland monotone by a sorry soul who had no idea what he was taking on when inking the contract. Midway through the torture he opted for voices, women sounded like angry men. Why, you ask, did I not shoot myself, better yet abandon ship? I’m not good at giving in. Next George Saunders, Lincoln on the Bardo, fuck. Now there were voices, so many voices. Many things, an acquired taste, George one for me. I’m not at that level as yet. I did enjoy some of his classes on the short-ish stories of those Russian guys. All said I shall, undoubtedly, persevere.
Winter fast approaching here in the southern hemisphere, I come upon two reads, (I’m no stacker), something to engage while absorbing not only the flickering of flames, may just read aloud, entertainment for the two lounging lizards (purr) dreamily warming their oh-so-exhausted selves. Share the joy.
