Part Two, What We Read: The Plots thicken 

"The wise ones brought us here from far far away. . . ."
 -an alien in the Star Trek episode "The Paradise Syndrome"

We read so many things, all sorts of stuff. But as Emily Dickinson observed in that much (over) quoted ship metaphor about the power of books to transport, they often do take us Lands away- sometimes to new or exotic locales, but always far from the daily cares. When we read for pleasure we also translate, articulate and order our thoughts and feelings with the help of some invisible, writerly hand. 

The act of reading a good book speaks to our world views, ideas and  knowledge, likes, dislikes, hopes, dreams, fears, experiences, curiosity, and the sheer need for escape from the everyday. Literary or just literate meditation, it relaxes and soothes, and may even enlighten.

From facebook and yahoo to emails and digital newspapers, we read those things too, but it's the books that remain with us: from the fraught and funny 1950's not-so-always- social teas, trifles and interesting conglomeration of Barbara Pym's Excellent Women, to Toni Morrison's brutally honest and moving The Bluest Eye of an American, racial badland, the many layered immigrant stories of Jhumpa Lahiri, an episodic, sharply satirical Adventures of Huckleberry Finn, and the disordered, brilliant stream of Proust's much too highly detailed consciousness, we read on. 

The choices seem infinite, despite our occasional whining about having "nothing to read. " In truth there are not enough hours in a lifetime to read it all, read it well, and read it twice.

The great American novels, the realism of Henry James, Edith Wharton and Theodore Dreiser vs. the minimal prose of Hemingway, Fitzgerald or Raymond Carver; the mid or late Victorians- Dickens, George Eliot or Hardy, anyone? The sci-fiers or alienated existentialists, the meta fiction of a post modern acrobat like Italo Calvino or lunacy of a Pynchon; the sharp, contemporary smartness of Zadie Smith; or a juicy and rich epic classic like Anna Karenina from the ineffable Count Tolstoi, any of the other unforgettable stories from around the world. There's an endless stream of "new fiction" and trendy bestsellers. Maybe you want to dig into an old fashioned mystery, be it Arthur Conan Doyle, Agatha Christie or J. K. Rowling. Others swear by non-fiction.

And then there are your all time favorites. Can you name your top ten?? As for great, classic novels, there are too many to mention- all vying for a place on a much too restricted list.  On a spur of the moment however, and from other genres as well, I choose Amos Oz's A Tale of Love and Darkness (non-fiction!), Jack Finny's Time and Again (creative, luscious historical sci-fi), and A Crown of Feathers by I.B. Singer (evocative, powerful short stories), just to cite a random few that popped into mind from waaaay back; apparently these stories sit cozily and quietly in the back of memory somewhere, refusing to be forgotten for this or any other list! 

The choices of what to read often appear never ending, and life seems good. An almost infinite stream to which most likely one can never do justice- what more could you ask for? In addition, we read not only books, but everything- (a different topic to be sure, but to mention a few- images, art,  screens of all sorts, movies, situations and people). Here though, I write only of printed words, pages, really good stories, devoted readers. 

The desire to read is ubiquitous and universal. The fact that you are taking the time to peruse these very letters, words and sentences- paltry though they seem in light of the mention of great books-  proves you are a bona fide reader! Who else but a dedicated reader would even want to read about reading?!? 

We all differ in our tastes, speak and read a variety of languages, settle and live in diverse places across the globe, but the desire to savor all those words and stories connects us, and in a sense keeps us going; it comprises a record of who we are out there in the vastness, it imbues purpose!

"I've always wondered why there are so many humanoids scattered through the galaxy"-  Dr. Leonard McKoy, aka "Bones," in "The Paradise Syndrome"

So whaddya reading these days??? (I'm willingly being hypnotized by Giorgio Bassani's newly translated Novel of Ferrara- a poetic journey in prose wherein a northern Italian town and its narrator serve as the microcosm for world changing events in the twentieth century; it's also kinda' huge, very stylistically detailed and would ease me through the rest of winter (if I took it slow, which I am not). 

What are your "top ten" (or five, or three, or dozen, because there are two more you just cannot leave out)? Or perhaps there is a particular volume that currently has you in or out of its thrall this very winter too? C'mon readers, share!
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What We Read (A Galactic Journey), Part One

Wintertime more than any other season is when we gobble up books This is not to suggest you cannot binge read during any season of the year. It's just that all that tempting text so alluringly in your face, in the bookstores, on a nearby shelf or even somewhere in a bin is usually a hare's breath away, as you hunt for something to read. When the big chill sets in, it's a warm, indoor elixir against the freezing, cold outside.

An earlier post of Feb. 26, 2016 talked about why we read- (click 2016 left, February, find "It's All Leigh Hunt's . . ."). However, what is the what of all this reading?

Previously I described a personal, lifelong reading addiction that had me grappling with the habit since early childhood. Weekly trips to the library a mile or so down the road. Balancing a small though quite heavy tower of kiddie lit in my little arms by having taken full advantage of the library's six-book checkout rule; lugging it all back to our modest, third floor walk  up.

The childhood booty always included more than just a few fairy tales and myths, addictive reads more often than not comprising the whole lot! I also mentioned in that post how as a pre-adolescent I moved on to Hollywood style romantic "adventures"-  the pirates of Robert Louis Stevenson, and eventually the swashbuckling, sexy heroes of Rafael Sabatini (can you say that name aloud and not love it?!?). 

Eventually, I was able to complete the entire ruination of a young life by majoring in stories, wallowing in the gorgeousness of Coleridge, Keats, Shelley, Byron, Leigh Hunt, the ramblings of Rousseau and eventually our own transcendental storytellers from right here in the colony. You want a cozy evening? Try Hawthorne's The House of Seven Gables. Got the travel bug but don't wanna or perhaps can't leave your home and hearth at the moment? The Marble Faun will do the trick!

Along the way I especially admired the poetry of an earlier, "pre-Romantic" from  the mother country, Thomas Gray, who warned so lyrically in his famous "Elegy in a Country Churchyard: The paths of glory lead but to the grave. . . a  lilting if dire admonition about values which led me to think, why not major in books? Given that dim if metaphorical scenario, what did I have to lose???

Most of us know, or think we know, why we read. Feel free to reread- or not-  the earlier post about why we read   (Feb. 26, 2016 "It Was All Leigh Hunt's Fault. . ." ). But reread or not, as they are fond of saying  on the west coast (& usually for some totally inexplicable reason), "it's all good. . . ."  For now though, it's all about what we read.

(Part Two Next Week: The Plots. . . .)
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Pymland Fantasy Revisited- A New Year's Card

 My post for the new year 2019 contains additions to a previous one, "Pymland and the Great Escape." Part re-print, part re-stated fantasy,  part plea for a quieter, kinder, more civilized world, minus all the bad stuff that always existed at the edges of such an imagined "simpler time." This is an updated version of that post.

Previously I posted about having dived in twice-  wholeheartedly and shamelessly- to the novels of Barbara Pym, despite already having read the whole lot down to the last Pymful word the first time. It was the perfect escape from our media maddened, crazed planet. Quietly and happily I re-wallowed in the ironic coziness of village life in the mother country a la Pym- the bucolic settings a mere bus ride from the bustle of London tea shops.

Barbara Pym, revered in the 1950’s, rejected as stodgy in the swingin’ sixties, rediscovered and restored to literary Valhalla in the seventies, and from then on anointed the undisputed queen of quaint English country life-  with an early feminist, decidedly wicked twist. Her work is an elixir against the crap of modern living. Her locales are devoid of yahoo news but brimming with sharp, hilarious observations-  places short on suitable men, amply supplied with unmarried ladies, and long on irony. The subdued mayhem happens amid a nice cup of tea, the occasional attendance at evensong and some truly splendid floral arrangements

It went on for the better part of a year, this second time around Pym obsession, in part to honor the memory of a lost friend and Pym aficionado whom I still miss. Will I be tempted to try a third reread at some point? What would provoke such a reactionary move? Well, specifically the giant, pixel flickering, 24/7, bellowing spectacles we see and hear each day hogging up hours of crowd manipulation and our attention, selling things and ideologies; the complicity of being online and/or voluntarily streaming the stuff into our homes at all hours. . . .

As it turns out, Orwell had it wrong- it really does not take only two minutes a day to control the populace, but requires ongoing, repetitive exposure, such as now we practice; then again, to be fair, we are long past that iconic date and there was no internet in ’84. We still read then. And talked.

The people of Pym's mid twentieth century stories are cyber free but convention bound, up to a point. They are women no longer young, yet tied contentedly and a tad philosophically to their routines and friendships. Often single, they live in flats, neat little houses or drafty rectories and attend church often, sometimes or never- but we always know to which category of church going (or not) they subscribe; their work is in libraries or offices or they don't work at all and have small but adequate private incomes.

Alongside are the men, some attractive and some not, a few pompous clerical types, elderly bachelors, younger, eligible bachelors, cute and flirty C of E priests, middle aged gay men, youngish academics, the occasional designing, though usually well attired woman who arrives in town to upset the mix. . . a small suburban contingent adept at shaking up cocktails. . . a species known as "gentlewomen," some of whom have fallen down a peg or two in their standard of living as shown by the quality of their hats.

There is a minimum of intrigue, much sharp satire and all is revealed through drily hilarious character observation, mostly tongue in cheek. Yet the entire tempest in a teapot seems quite orderly and downright pastoral amid overtones of subtle social mischief and Pym's deft style. Even the seasons are improved by the Queen Pym's writerly touch. In Pymland you know summer is giving way to autumn for example not simply because the evenings are starting to darken sooner, but because “the days inexorably are drawing in.”

Do autumn days still draw in?? Of course they do! But who says or even thinks that anymore? And when is the last time you used the word "inexorably??" Drawing in is redolent of some velvet encased Edwardian parlor with mild social suspense and lord knows what shocking social faux pas in the offing. . . .

Sensibly, almost shabbily dressed and sensibly, seriously shod, but quite comfortable in their eccentricities, the women sometimes prefer making bramble jelly of an evening to enduring a boring cocktail party with the town’s eligible bachelors. There are abundant allusions to Austen with a modern, clever take as Pym slices and serves with the shiniest of cake knives. 

The Emmas and Daphnes, Mildreds and Dulcies, the splendid dahlias and bursting chrysanthemums, a soothing bouquet tinged with all sorts of sly snorts and knowing smiles. Friday evening meetings of the history society. . . eligible vicars and doting, unmarried sisters,  anthropologists, seductive waiters and the occasional, irresistible military cad or cunning vixen, mischievous subtexts looming. . .  contrived solutions to catastrophic social gaffs, over tea.

Legendary British bland cooking is on full display as her hostesses limp heroically toward one of many, many casserole recipes. Or a solitary dinner may be “tinned” or even a meal so sparse tha a boiled egg and some leftover wine suffices. . . conversely she may present us with a richly trifled chocolate, perhaps a sweet plate of creamed biscuits to be presented and consumed at an equally pungent and unusually spicy jumble sale at the local vicarage.

This paean to Pym may seem overstated, superfluous, the average, informed anglophile reader already having long ago succumbed to her siren song (or not) of tea cozies and a nice chicken dinner when guests are expected and one is really not sure what to serve. . . . and in the service of full disclosure, when needing a respite from stark reality, or the quick & easy Brit fix, I have alternated her sharp, though gentlewoman irony with the wickedly wickedly clever, dark humor of another witty lady of letters from the sceptered isle, the ineffable Muriel Spark.

But aaah, to live- even for a short while-  as a character in one of those marvelous tales of angsty, muted guffaws, in a mythical village of shepherd’s pie and equally savory, gentle intrigue. No ubiquitous screens or facebook, no upsetting politics or bad vibes, only authentic, cute birdies providing the background twitter. In such a charming if imperfect world of small troubles, smart quips and clever character revelations will you find me, tending quite contentedly to my field of summer roses and chatting amiably if a bit cautiously with the neighbors. 

Several years down the road  I'm still in admiration of Pymland, tuning in now and again to those imaginary sensibilities, suspense laden garden parties, silly intrigues, at least in my escapist, bookish, dream world. Just to be clear though, I have in no way abandoned the more complex delights of Brit (or any other) lit. Henry James still is the master, along with the other great word magicians of all time and languages. It's just that occasionally I need a break from life's hard themes. So no New Year's resolutions for me, now or ever, just cake! Preferably with a sweet and light though subtly delicate icing, perhaps just a hint of lemon for tartness. Bon apetit!