What we read is chosen for us.
In ancient Rome, money talked, self advertising helped, the term captive audience took on new meaning, from the story's "listeners" to its scribes.
It was the custom of the time for writers to read their books to a select audience of friends before they were published, and it was fashionable to be seen attending such occasions, said H.V. Morton in "A Traveler in Rome;" these listening events also could become quite tedious, equated once with the "terrors of Rome" like "the collapse of badly built houses" and "fires."
Following the long winded reading came the hard copy. After having read his new work in public, the writer would take it to a publisher, who employed a number of copyists. While a reader dictated a book, scribes wrote it down in black ink on sheets of papyrus, which afterwards were pasted together into a roll. Twenty scribes working several hours a day could no doubt produce a thousand copies which was considered a fair edition.
In the much nearer "old days" of a century or two ago, getting published no longer involved papyrus (really a hassle to stick in your bag or unroll on a bus!), but it did entail having some talent and/or knowing someone and/or or using your luck and ingenuity. Stories abound about writers whose manuscripts were "discovered" and immortalized on the merits of the narrative.
In ancient Rome, money talked, self advertising helped, the term captive audience took on new meaning, from the story's "listeners" to its scribes.
It was the custom of the time for writers to read their books to a select audience of friends before they were published, and it was fashionable to be seen attending such occasions, said H.V. Morton in "A Traveler in Rome;" these listening events also could become quite tedious, equated once with the "terrors of Rome" like "the collapse of badly built houses" and "fires."
Following the long winded reading came the hard copy. After having read his new work in public, the writer would take it to a publisher, who employed a number of copyists. While a reader dictated a book, scribes wrote it down in black ink on sheets of papyrus, which afterwards were pasted together into a roll. Twenty scribes working several hours a day could no doubt produce a thousand copies which was considered a fair edition.
In the much nearer "old days" of a century or two ago, getting published no longer involved papyrus (really a hassle to stick in your bag or unroll on a bus!), but it did entail having some talent and/or knowing someone and/or or using your luck and ingenuity. Stories abound about writers whose manuscripts were "discovered" and immortalized on the merits of the narrative.
In these times however, often it looks as if you just have to know someone.
At least that's what it seems from the volume of crappy selections on store bookshelves, online libraries and even small, individually owned, slightly snotty, ol' time book shops, who after all just want to remain in business like everyone else. Readers get so frustrated with all these (un)literary and often boring "choices" they revert to the classics; soon they're devouring texts that once came with homework questions in high school, finding new meaning in them!
How many current titles on display will make it through the next fifty years?
So many books, to choose from, but publishing is still a business with grand marketing schemes that not only reflect the reader's taste but create it. Like any fashion, some stories sell, others fall through the cracks- like those funny shirts with the big, silly holes in the shoulders they kept trying to peddle as elegant. The plethora of "choices" (clever, fun "must reads" notwithstanding) still proves classics modern and old emerge only once in a blue moon.
Keeping all this in mind discerning readers, we've already bandied around the idea of a personal "Top Ten" (or three, or seven) of incredible, artful, life changing books that really did inspire; you heeded the call by contributing a bunch of important, beloved titles! Now let's get down & dirty & find some memorable lines to share- initially I had the notion of readers choosing from three works to show why these reads wowed you.
I soon realized this was a bout of temporary insanity- who would want to deal with three excerpts, even short ones, for what feels like an "assignment?" But on the other hand, might not many readers involved with this blog very likely agree to doing one? These amazing first, last or in-between lines you submit will lead us to stories we should be tackling immediately (or again!), to say nothing of the bookish, cathartic value of thinking back.
Perhaps you choose to go "ancient Roman" on us & make a short video of yourself reading anything; I would post that too. Realistically though, you may just want to select an especially resonant line or two from one of your favorite reads and email it in for blog readers to consider and enjoy.
It's food for thoughfulness, will help us through the winter, and the solitary pleasure of reading will not be diminished one jot by these simple though significant offerings.
To kick off this life affirming exercise not requiring any challenging yoga poses, here are two for starters (a compromise between one and three): the first about being young, carefree, and rich in New York's original gilded Age, the second telling of more modest circumstances and fewer opportunities during that same period-
The day was delectable. The bare vaulting of trees along the mall was ceiled with lapus lazuli, and arched above the snow that shone like splintered crystals. It was the weather to call out May's radiance and she burned like a young maple in the frost. Archer was proud of the glances turned on her. . . . (Edith Wharton, Age of Innocence)
vs.
When Caroline Meeber boarded the afternoon train for Chicago, her total outfit consisted of a small trunk, a cheap imitation alligator-skinned satched, a small lunch in a paper box, and a yellow leather snap purse containing her ticket, a scrap of paper with her sister's address. . . and four dollars . . . . It was in August, 1889. She was eighteen years of age, bright, timid, and full of the illusions of ignorance and youth. (Theordore Dreiser, Sister Carrie).
Oh, those marvelous "splintered crystals" under a blue sky that shone on May Welland; ah, that scrappy "yellow leather snap purse" and the absence of prospects it intimated for Carrie Meeber!
Remember, old or new, "classic" or not, so many really good reads and fantastic lines, so little time. . . . What wowed you?
Some readers have had trouble posting comments. You can always email them to me (nystoryweaver@yahoo.com) and I will post them for you.
I soon realized this was a bout of temporary insanity- who would want to deal with three excerpts, even short ones, for what feels like an "assignment?" But on the other hand, might not many readers involved with this blog very likely agree to doing one? These amazing first, last or in-between lines you submit will lead us to stories we should be tackling immediately (or again!), to say nothing of the bookish, cathartic value of thinking back.
Perhaps you choose to go "ancient Roman" on us & make a short video of yourself reading anything; I would post that too. Realistically though, you may just want to select an especially resonant line or two from one of your favorite reads and email it in for blog readers to consider and enjoy.
It's food for thoughfulness, will help us through the winter, and the solitary pleasure of reading will not be diminished one jot by these simple though significant offerings.
To kick off this life affirming exercise not requiring any challenging yoga poses, here are two for starters (a compromise between one and three): the first about being young, carefree, and rich in New York's original gilded Age, the second telling of more modest circumstances and fewer opportunities during that same period-
The day was delectable. The bare vaulting of trees along the mall was ceiled with lapus lazuli, and arched above the snow that shone like splintered crystals. It was the weather to call out May's radiance and she burned like a young maple in the frost. Archer was proud of the glances turned on her. . . . (Edith Wharton, Age of Innocence)
vs.
When Caroline Meeber boarded the afternoon train for Chicago, her total outfit consisted of a small trunk, a cheap imitation alligator-skinned satched, a small lunch in a paper box, and a yellow leather snap purse containing her ticket, a scrap of paper with her sister's address. . . and four dollars . . . . It was in August, 1889. She was eighteen years of age, bright, timid, and full of the illusions of ignorance and youth. (Theordore Dreiser, Sister Carrie).
Oh, those marvelous "splintered crystals" under a blue sky that shone on May Welland; ah, that scrappy "yellow leather snap purse" and the absence of prospects it intimated for Carrie Meeber!
Remember, old or new, "classic" or not, so many really good reads and fantastic lines, so little time. . . . What wowed you?
Some readers have had trouble posting comments. You can always email them to me (nystoryweaver@yahoo.com) and I will post them for you.
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