Dear You,
You probably know that I buy my books more often than I ever get them from a library. When I have a couple of disposable dollars, I like to go to Borders or Barnes & Noble, and my favorite finds are on the remainders tables, where I can get a fat hardbound that cost $25 or more for only four or five or six bucks.
It makes it all the easier to give them away. http://www.bookcrossing.com/ has helped me in my enterprise, and I recommend it to you. For the record, if you'd care to look at the books I've read since joining, I'm "Manomet," a name I chose from the town where I owned a vacation home for 20 or so years.
The Random Acts of Kindness aspect particularly calls to me. I like the anonymity, the serendipity. But even I was surprised when my wife, traveling home recently and on a layover at JFK airport was handed a Dick Francis novel from a fellow sitting nearby. All I know is that he'd bought something in Dulles, Virginia that morning and a bottle of Guiness at JFK four hours later -- that from the two sales receipts he'd kept in the book for page markers. Instead of lugging the finished book onto the next airplane, he passed it along . . . and it got to me.
So, of course, I'm passing it along to you, in a sense. If you check my BookCrossing site for Dick Francis' Longshot, you can learn where I have left it.
Finder's Keepers . . . unless you, too, give it away.
Showing posts with label reading. Show all posts
Showing posts with label reading. Show all posts
Thursday, July 17, 2008
Friday, November 9, 2007
Lame Brain
Dear You,
Okay, the hype got to me. Instead of turning off the TV and opening my novel, I watched the whole two hours of CSI/Without A Trace. After all, I thought, there might not be new shows for awhile, since the Hollywood writers have gone on strike.
So I watched the bodies pile up: a closeup of the pretty girl, whose brains were bashed in as she was taking a bath (candles burned while she sipped the last of her wine before hearing the door creak open) -- a closeup of the pretty wife, brains bashed in and stuffed into the trunk of her old, dust-covered car (she worked hard for a living and didn't deserve to die) -- closeup photos of three other pretty victims, showing the jewelry the killer had retained as gifts to his (pretty) sister, who Didn't Have a Clue . . . don't serial killers ever bash in the brains of ugly women?
Meanwhile, the head of the crime lab and the head of the FBI pop in and out of each other's shows, jetting between Las Vegas and New York City and exchanging Meaningful Looks; at the same time, their minions do a lot of talking, and to cover the banality of what they say, they peer closely at The Evidence with little flashlights and take close-up photos of candy wrappers with big cameras and long lenses.
And why all this carnage? (a) the killer was misunderstood by his father, and (b) the killer loves and yearns for his cute, blond son. Oh . . . I don't want to drag out the suspense any longer: at the end he apologizes to his sister (whom he did NOT kill), and blows his brains out with a gun that everyone knew he had hidden under his arm.
As I thought about the show later, the question which lingered was this: what difference does it make if writers such as the one(s) for this show are . . . or are not . . . on strike? Well, not the only question -- I wondered why I had not put in another two hours with my novel.
Okay, the hype got to me. Instead of turning off the TV and opening my novel, I watched the whole two hours of CSI/Without A Trace. After all, I thought, there might not be new shows for awhile, since the Hollywood writers have gone on strike.
So I watched the bodies pile up: a closeup of the pretty girl, whose brains were bashed in as she was taking a bath (candles burned while she sipped the last of her wine before hearing the door creak open) -- a closeup of the pretty wife, brains bashed in and stuffed into the trunk of her old, dust-covered car (she worked hard for a living and didn't deserve to die) -- closeup photos of three other pretty victims, showing the jewelry the killer had retained as gifts to his (pretty) sister, who Didn't Have a Clue . . . don't serial killers ever bash in the brains of ugly women?
Meanwhile, the head of the crime lab and the head of the FBI pop in and out of each other's shows, jetting between Las Vegas and New York City and exchanging Meaningful Looks; at the same time, their minions do a lot of talking, and to cover the banality of what they say, they peer closely at The Evidence with little flashlights and take close-up photos of candy wrappers with big cameras and long lenses.
And why all this carnage? (a) the killer was misunderstood by his father, and (b) the killer loves and yearns for his cute, blond son. Oh . . . I don't want to drag out the suspense any longer: at the end he apologizes to his sister (whom he did NOT kill), and blows his brains out with a gun that everyone knew he had hidden under his arm.
As I thought about the show later, the question which lingered was this: what difference does it make if writers such as the one(s) for this show are . . . or are not . . . on strike? Well, not the only question -- I wondered why I had not put in another two hours with my novel.
Sunday, October 14, 2007
Relaxation and Vacation
Dear You,
With the pace of travel I currently have set, I've been thinking about the process quite a lot. The past summer found me in Columbus, Seattle, Cheboygan, Long Island, Olean, Long Island again, Olean again . . . and I'm just back from two weeks on Cape Cod before heading south to Florida for three weeks. I write all this to remind myself where I've been and to know where I am.
Sure it's been fun, and it's always important to spend time with far-flung friends and family. But it's also work. At this moment bags are still to be unpacked and boxes emptied . . . before packing again for the drive south.
A few weeks ago I read through Austen's Pride and Prejudice, and what sticks are the visits made by the Bennett daughters. Travel was not at the distances I have recorded above, but they seemed much more leisurely and for longer periods. No rushing about. And when one of the girls arrived at her destination, the chief occupations seemed to be morning walks, afternoon talks, and long periods at the table, followed by cards or correspondence in the evenings. Books, for those who were literate and inclined to the life of the mind. Most notably, once arrived, they suffered no further expense.
These past two weeks tended to blur -- tickets on a boat or a train, meals at a variety of restaurants, browsing through one gift shoppe after another, "picking up stuff and talking about it" as I described to a relative. Yes, I took time to work on my aunt's quilt, and I very nearly finished a book -- The Secret Life of Lobsters. Relaxing? In truth, not enough to suit me. But soon I'm off again.
With the pace of travel I currently have set, I've been thinking about the process quite a lot. The past summer found me in Columbus, Seattle, Cheboygan, Long Island, Olean, Long Island again, Olean again . . . and I'm just back from two weeks on Cape Cod before heading south to Florida for three weeks. I write all this to remind myself where I've been and to know where I am.
Sure it's been fun, and it's always important to spend time with far-flung friends and family. But it's also work. At this moment bags are still to be unpacked and boxes emptied . . . before packing again for the drive south.
A few weeks ago I read through Austen's Pride and Prejudice, and what sticks are the visits made by the Bennett daughters. Travel was not at the distances I have recorded above, but they seemed much more leisurely and for longer periods. No rushing about. And when one of the girls arrived at her destination, the chief occupations seemed to be morning walks, afternoon talks, and long periods at the table, followed by cards or correspondence in the evenings. Books, for those who were literate and inclined to the life of the mind. Most notably, once arrived, they suffered no further expense.
These past two weeks tended to blur -- tickets on a boat or a train, meals at a variety of restaurants, browsing through one gift shoppe after another, "picking up stuff and talking about it" as I described to a relative. Yes, I took time to work on my aunt's quilt, and I very nearly finished a book -- The Secret Life of Lobsters. Relaxing? In truth, not enough to suit me. But soon I'm off again.
Friday, July 20, 2007
Tubs
Dear You,
It has been disconcerting this summer to be in companionship with so many people -- friends and acquaintances -- who have shown an aversion to "serious talk." By that I mean just about anything relating to events on a larger stage than the little area around us. I have thought of Edgar Lee Masters' "Spoon River," where one of the characters, a cooper, or barrel maker, scoffs at his fellows, saying they think they see Life, but all they see is the "rim of their tub."
Because we are confined to our bodies and to just a few years of history, our experiences in life are narrow. It takes an effort to leave our comfortable surroundings and see what Life -- in a wider sense -- is like, and even then we will never fully know. As a man, I would like to understand the lives of women. As someone born in the mid-twentieth century, I am curious about the ancestors . . . how is my perception different from someone younger? What about those reared in different cultures?
While I remain forever walled in my own Self, I have long sought windows -- I read newspapers and news magazines, I listen to National Public Radio, and (of course!) I read Serious Books. What I believe is that one cannot otherwise be much of a citizen. But what I have experienced in too many recent encounters are fear, anger, distrust, and suspicion, along with an unwillingness to explore whether those feelings are warranted. And I confess, it makes me feel a bit lonely.
It has been disconcerting this summer to be in companionship with so many people -- friends and acquaintances -- who have shown an aversion to "serious talk." By that I mean just about anything relating to events on a larger stage than the little area around us. I have thought of Edgar Lee Masters' "Spoon River," where one of the characters, a cooper, or barrel maker, scoffs at his fellows, saying they think they see Life, but all they see is the "rim of their tub."
Because we are confined to our bodies and to just a few years of history, our experiences in life are narrow. It takes an effort to leave our comfortable surroundings and see what Life -- in a wider sense -- is like, and even then we will never fully know. As a man, I would like to understand the lives of women. As someone born in the mid-twentieth century, I am curious about the ancestors . . . how is my perception different from someone younger? What about those reared in different cultures?
While I remain forever walled in my own Self, I have long sought windows -- I read newspapers and news magazines, I listen to National Public Radio, and (of course!) I read Serious Books. What I believe is that one cannot otherwise be much of a citizen. But what I have experienced in too many recent encounters are fear, anger, distrust, and suspicion, along with an unwillingness to explore whether those feelings are warranted. And I confess, it makes me feel a bit lonely.
Tuesday, July 10, 2007
Reading
Dear You,
It is not possible for me to remember not being able to read, nor was there ever a time since I began when reading was not a deep pleasure. For many years I have said that if Heaven is the place with no books, I would seriously consider spending eternity elsewhere -- anywhere there might be the written word. I am compulsive about print. I read the cereal box even if it is the same material I read the day before.
My morning begins, though, not with cereal but with coffee and the newspaper, and I am distressed by the possibility that I will outlive newsprint -- I read that papers are folding everywhere in the world in favor of other media people are using to get their information. I linger over the newspaper, even though the one here in Rochester, New York is not much of a paper -- not compared to, say, the St. Petersburg Times, which I have access to in the winter months.
While I scan every headline and read most of the paper, I don't read every story. For instance, on page 2C today, under "My Pet World" I saw the headline, "Blot out cat urine before neutralizing the odor." Even then I registered the first sentence (Q: You once wrote about cleaning up cat urine.) before tearing my eyes downward in search of something . . . well . . . something a tad more interesting to me.
Still, reading remains always at least potentially valuable. Should I ever find myself with an incontinent cat, I will know to search the archives for this bit of information. But not today.
It is not possible for me to remember not being able to read, nor was there ever a time since I began when reading was not a deep pleasure. For many years I have said that if Heaven is the place with no books, I would seriously consider spending eternity elsewhere -- anywhere there might be the written word. I am compulsive about print. I read the cereal box even if it is the same material I read the day before.
My morning begins, though, not with cereal but with coffee and the newspaper, and I am distressed by the possibility that I will outlive newsprint -- I read that papers are folding everywhere in the world in favor of other media people are using to get their information. I linger over the newspaper, even though the one here in Rochester, New York is not much of a paper -- not compared to, say, the St. Petersburg Times, which I have access to in the winter months.
While I scan every headline and read most of the paper, I don't read every story. For instance, on page 2C today, under "My Pet World" I saw the headline, "Blot out cat urine before neutralizing the odor." Even then I registered the first sentence (Q: You once wrote about cleaning up cat urine.) before tearing my eyes downward in search of something . . . well . . . something a tad more interesting to me.
Still, reading remains always at least potentially valuable. Should I ever find myself with an incontinent cat, I will know to search the archives for this bit of information. But not today.
Sunday, July 8, 2007
Turning Leaves
Dear You,
While on a whale-watching excursion out of Plymouth, Massachusetts, several years ago, I observed at the back of the vessel a man flanked by two boys, each engrossed in a paperback book. Since they were dressed similarly and bore resemblances to each other, I took them for father and sons. We had been out of sight of shore for over an hour already, with another hour to go before reaching the Stellwagen Banks, where the whales most likely were to be seen.
I looked around at the other passengers -- some in quiet conversation, others fiddling with camera equipment, quite a few with portable listening devices and nodding or tapping to music flowing from headsets, and not a few who were just staring at the vacant seascape. Here and there was someone else looking at print: the tour brochure, a magazine . . . but I saw only those three with books. In the years since, I have observed this same situation in a variety of public places.
How to explain this loss of the habit of reading? (An exegesis, no doubt, too lengthy for this space!) Kosinski called Americans a "nation of videots" and Mencken sneeringly invented decades earlier "Boobus Americanus." If those who are ignorant of history are doomed to repeat it, I think those who aren't readers cannot be very good citizens -- certainly not in a democracy, which can be sustained only by people of reason.
I think of those three readers afloat in the Atlantic, just a few years before their fellow Americans -- those who managed to get to the polls at all! -- voted into office a man who can scarcely read his own teleprompter, and who, with little sense of, and no regard for, history, has so damaged our country that it will be years undoing him if at all. Incredibly, We, the People, returned to the polls and elected him again!
Wasn't anyone reading?
While on a whale-watching excursion out of Plymouth, Massachusetts, several years ago, I observed at the back of the vessel a man flanked by two boys, each engrossed in a paperback book. Since they were dressed similarly and bore resemblances to each other, I took them for father and sons. We had been out of sight of shore for over an hour already, with another hour to go before reaching the Stellwagen Banks, where the whales most likely were to be seen.
I looked around at the other passengers -- some in quiet conversation, others fiddling with camera equipment, quite a few with portable listening devices and nodding or tapping to music flowing from headsets, and not a few who were just staring at the vacant seascape. Here and there was someone else looking at print: the tour brochure, a magazine . . . but I saw only those three with books. In the years since, I have observed this same situation in a variety of public places.
How to explain this loss of the habit of reading? (An exegesis, no doubt, too lengthy for this space!) Kosinski called Americans a "nation of videots" and Mencken sneeringly invented decades earlier "Boobus Americanus." If those who are ignorant of history are doomed to repeat it, I think those who aren't readers cannot be very good citizens -- certainly not in a democracy, which can be sustained only by people of reason.
I think of those three readers afloat in the Atlantic, just a few years before their fellow Americans -- those who managed to get to the polls at all! -- voted into office a man who can scarcely read his own teleprompter, and who, with little sense of, and no regard for, history, has so damaged our country that it will be years undoing him if at all. Incredibly, We, the People, returned to the polls and elected him again!
Wasn't anyone reading?
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