December 4, 2008
A misreading
I felt sorry for the man beside us on the subway. He looked miserable, with one of those craggy Mordecai Richler faces molded out of clay. His bottom lip was stuck out low, and his eyes were cast out, seeing nothing. Though I wasn’t close enough to tell, I imagined he smelled, and his clothes were tatty, his shoes were cheap.
It was Thanksgiving, and were headed out to dinner at our friends’, balancing casserole dishes on our knees– we were bearing beans, sweet potato stuffing, freshly baked corn muffins. We would arrive to tall wine glasses, glorious roast turkey, heaven-sent potatoes, and a set table around which would be seated lovely friends.
Whereas the man beside us appeared to be moving, laden with every single of of his possessions stuffed into black garbage bags. Three or four bags, and he was holding them close, defensive. Like any of us would be interested in what he was carrying, but we supposed this was all he had. He turned his head to glance out the window, but his eyes still seemed unfocused. We wouldn’t have been surprised if he’d started muttering something about nothing at any time.
And so we kept our distance, as much as it’s possible to do side-by-side on public transportation. But it is possible, you know that. It’s in the way you hold yourself, the subtlety with which you turn your body away. The deliberateness of not seeming deliberate, because deliberateness is acknowledgment, which was much closer than we wanted to get.
It wasn’t comfortable, of course. The disparity between us and him was just too jarring, because here it was a holiday Monday and we were the luckiest two in the world. Easier, really, to pretend not to notice this sad pathetic man moving on Thanksgiving, moving on the subway with his belongings in plastic bags. For how do you notice it, and then sit around a gorgeous table with friends? Does it mean anything to be thankful after that? And how do you draw the line between thankful and smug anyway? A toast to us, because we’re not him, and thank god for that. Cheers.
He got off one stop before we did. Gathering his bags, keeping them close, and then we noticed something peculiar as he stepped off the train. So much so that we had to turn and watch, as the train began to leave the station, and the man started walking towards the stairs. How all four of his bags began to rise up into the air without effort, and we realized they were stuffed with balloons. Helium. And now off the train, he didn’t need them so close, so he was letting them float where they’d bob along, high up above his head.
December 4, 2008
Notable
What are the odds? That for the second year in a row Pickle Me This has read six (6) books out of the New York Times 100 Notable. And that also for the second year, I’ve read the first and second books listed (which raises one’s expectations a bit, no? But then they’re in alphabetical order). Books featured that we love including American Wife by Curtis Sittenfeld, Atmospheric Disturbances by Rivka Galchen, Home by Marilynne Robinson, Unaccustomed Earth by Jhumpa Lahiri, When Will There Be Good News? by Kate Atkinson, and Yesterday’s Weather by Anne Enright. The list also includes Richard Price’s Lush Life, which I just might be receiving for Christmas.
From the Globe and Mail 100, we’ve read a far more respectable 12, having noted here The Girl in Saskatoon by Sharon Butala, Lucy Maud Montgomery: The Gift of Wings by Mary Henley Rubio, The Mitfords: Letters Between Six Sisters by Charlotte Mosley, The Flying Troutmans by Miriam Toews, Stunt by Claudia Dey, Coventry by Helen Humphries, The Boys in the Trees by Mary Swan, Girl Meets Boy by Ali Smith, Home by Marilynne Robinson and Goldengrove by Francine Prose.
Stay tuned for the Pickle Me This Picks of ’08, still to come.
December 3, 2008
Now
Now reading The Paris Reviews vol. 1, Wally Lamb’s new novel The Hour I First Believed, and Ina-May’s Guide to Childbirth. Now looking forward to going to bed, though I am currently enjoying listening to my husband singing along to The Stone Roses downstairs.
December 2, 2008
Truly reflective reading
“I should know by now that I can’t read a book by Virginia Woolf in the same way that I may read any other book. This is truly reflective reading, little instalments which plant seeds of brilliant word-thought long after the page is turned, and in this case the on-off beam of the lighthouse lamp feels like a constant and perfectly regulated shaft of light alternating with darkness throughout the book and I’m starting to ‘get it’. In fact I think I’m ready to set off To the Lighthouse again now.”– today at Dovegreyreader Scribbles
December 1, 2008
Literature and Hotels
At the Descant Blog, I’ve written a post about literature and hotels.
November 30, 2008
Those Saturdays
Aren’t they the best, those Saturdays you have to be up early in time for the exterminator’s arrival? They certainly pave the way for the best lazy Sundays at least, because though today’s weather is les misérables, I don’t even have to go outside (or at least not much farther than one would venture for a paper). Because I was up so early yesterday that I’d finished reading a book and written 1200 words of fiction before it was time to go out for lunch. Lunch was delightful, yum roast vegetable sandwiches you never fail to satisfy. And then to Book City, to buy a stack of Christmas gifts, fully confident in the direction I was flinging my money. I also had occasion to pick out a jar of luscious jam at the grocery store, which is one of my favourite delights (along with the very fact of preserves in general).
It was coldish outside yesterday, but not really, and the sun was shining, so our walk down to the wool shop was perfectly delightful. I purchased the wool of my dreams for my baby’s blanket, that which we’ll reserve to be the first object to envelop it (save for our arms). The wool is greyish blueish and not babyish at all, which is what I wanted. The blanket will be beautiful and two rows in is (still) perfect.
We continued along Queen St., stopping in at Dufflet for a cake break. Chocolate banana mini-bundt cake did the trick, and then further onwards to Type where I bought another stack of books for other people (oh, book buying without compunction– such a delight!), and then we walked north through Trinity Bellwoods Park and down College Street, through our old hood. We stopped at She Said Boom and I was compelled to buy a copy of the Paris Review Interviews Vol. I, which was book buying with (only) some compunction. I am very excited to read it, and thought it wouldn’t be fair for me to be the only person yesterday for whom I did not buy a book.
We arrived home as the sun went down, and I was cooked my favourite meal for dinner (sweet potato and black bean quesidilla yum). And though I was zonked to death there was energy left for Alex and Bronwyn’s housewarming party, which was thoroughly unnecessary I thought, as their house was already the warmest place I knew. Turned out it got warmer, and the evening was wonderful, but I very did nearly require carrying up the subway stairs as we stumbled home towards bed.
And now an avocado is in my immediate future: fun never, ever ends.
November 28, 2008
Reading in Bed
I think that except for the obvious things, like eating, and sleeping, and breathing, etc., I haven’t been doing anything as long I’ve been reading in bed. Not continuously, of course (unfortunately, though I do give it a run for my money most every Saturday morning– am I ever not late for brunch? I don’t think so. Now you know why) but nearly every night for about twenty five years, I’ve propped my head up on two pillows and read by the light of a bedside lamp. These days I do so beside my husband, and such symmetry is all the domestic bliss I ever dreamed about as a girl. He usually turns off his light before I do mine, but he understands that no matter how late it is, no matter that I might get just a page or two read, that for me reading in bed in just as much a part of getting ready for bed as is flossing (though I remember to read in bed much more often).
I used to get in trouble for reading in bed. I used to go to school and tell my teachers that, so they’d feel sorry for me, and were usually uncomprehending about how any parent could be so cruel. No one understood, however, that without the “lights out” call, I would have never gone to sleep. So I used to have to resort to extremes in order to keep reading– under the covers with a flashlight, hiding in my closet with the light on, or demanding that the door be left open a crack and reading in the dimmest of light. (I used to get in trouble for this too, for reading in the dark. “You’ll need glasses,” my parents warned me, which was the wrong thing to say. Because I lusted after glasses, they were my very heart’s desire. I resolved to start reading in light that was only dimmer).
Reading in bed has gone on through a variety of living situations. My parents stopped with the lights out, eventually, and I used to fall asleep in my cereal instead. I see now that I was lucky that my roommate never complained about how the light shone on and on during my first year at university. When I traveled in Europe, I read in my bunk with a flashlight. During the three months I lived in a youth hostel in England, a cheap and tiny reading lamp that clipped to my bed stand was my most cherished possession. When we lived in Japan and slept in a loft that we could hardly sit up in, we read by a thin florescent light on the wall that buzzed on with the pull of a chain, and when we were finished went out with a pop. Recently I was reading and my lamp’s light bulb burnt out, without a spare in the house, and I was so distressed and would not rest until my husband gave me his. We were less symmetrical that night, but I felt better, and he got to go to sleep…
Reading in bed in the mornings is something different– more indulgent, less essential. It can never be just a page or two either, and time always stretches on for hours. Until so much light comes in through the window that I don’t need my bedside lamp at all, and then I start to see the point of getting out of bed. Eventually.
November 28, 2008
It's not Doris Lessing's fault
I am now reading The Diaries of Jane Somers, by Doris Lessing, and liking it completely. I’d always thought Margaret Atwood was the most all-over-the-shop writer ever, until I started reading Doris Lessing– range for the sake of range, it’s amazing. And so it’s not Doris Lessing’s fault that as soon as my orders came in at the library, I put her aside temporarily. It’s just that I’ve been reading quite a lot of weighty books of late, and they made The Big Rumpus by Ayun Halliday look pretty irresistible once I’d brought it home with me. I used to read Ayun Halliday in Bust when I was little (i.e. 20) and the book is contagiously energetic and as entertaining as her columns. I also like Ayun Halliday because it doesn’t occur to her it mightn’t be possible to have a baby but not a car.
November 28, 2008
The Children's Book Bank
This morning on the radio I heard about The Children’s Book Bank, an amazing initiative offering free books and literacy support in downtown Toronto. The Book Bank operates much like a bookshop, or a library, except that the books are free.
From their website: “A visit to The Children’s Book Bank is much like a visit to a familiar and well loved children’s book store. The space is safe, warm and inviting and is intended to create a wonderful oasis for the children; a place where they can relax and experience the magic of books and enjoy reading.”
Those of us who love books very much can certainly imagine the pride these children must take in owning their own libraries. For information on how to donate money or “gently used, high quality children’s books” to the Children’s Book Bank, click here.
November 27, 2008
What's going on?
“…what’s going on? I’ll tell you what: life is going on. You have an opinion. I have an opinion. Life don’t have no opinion.” –Grace Paley, “Zagrowsky Tells”
