Revisiting, reevaluating

There are two themes to my reading this year. The first is that I've been reading a lot of "big" books. That was especially true early in 2009 when I read Roberto Bolano's 2666 and Tolstoy's (no first name necessary) Anna Karenina, pretty much back to back. I used to joke that I have the attention span of a gnat (without knowing, of course, if a gnat indeed has a limited attention span; but it sounded good), and that I was never much good at reading anything above, say, 300 pages. Although I've read large-ish tomes in the past - Norman Mailer's Executioner's Song comes to mind (all 1000 pages or so of it!), and as a teen I read Stephen King's massive It (it was a b-day gift from my parents, who figured because I enjoyed reading that I'd like the book that was #1 on the best-seller's list that year) - I tend toward more manageable works. You know, the ones around 200 to 250 pages.

I expanded my horizons this year though and pulled off the shelf some larger works. Bolano's 2666 was a no-brainer. Since devouring his Savage Detectives (yes, it's a long novel!) during the 2007 xmas season, I was hooked on the guy's work. I bought 2666 (at my local bookstore - remember to support your local book shop) about a week after it was released, with the intent of saving it for the 2008 xmas season when I had two full weeks off to devote to nothing more than reading and loafing (two of my fave activities). What a joy it was to spend time in Bolano's world for approximately 950 pages. (I can't fact check the exact page count; I've lent the book to a friend.) And reading Anna Karenina ... well, what could I possibly add to the far-more intelligent insights already out there on the novel? As I've said many times since: "That Anna Karenina, I think it's a classic."

Which brings me to the second theme of my reading year: re-reading. After I finished 2666, and after reading an article (sorry I can't link to it since I don't remember where I saw it) that suggested a clue to the 2666 title could be found toward the end of Savage Detectives, I decided to re-read Savage. Although I consider myself a somewhat-serious reader, I've never been one to re-read a work. My argument? There are far too many books to read once, so why bother picking up something I've already finished?

Upon reflection, and as I continue to read for the second time the wonderful first Zuckerman trilogy (+ the final Zuckerman book, Exit Ghost, which I'm about halfway through) by Philip Roth, I realize how shortsighted this "no re-read" strategy is. The Zuckerman books mean so much more to me now than they did on my first read over 10 years ago. For one, I'm in a better space to better understand the works - I have more life experience (I almost used the word "maturity," but fear it might be a misuse of that word...), for one, and I'm far-more self-reflective. The novels speak to me in ways they couldn't when I first read them while in my early 20s. The reading experience is totally different - it's more fulfilling in so many ways.

All hail to the re-read!

Thoughts on, among other things, poetry

From Nicholson Baker's The Anthologist:

Tim leaned forward. "I work away at this book, and I describe how the Queen oversaw this huge system of plunder and destruction that wrecked people's lives all over the globe, and I've raked together all this knowledge, and I enjoy doing it because I feel I'm getting at the truth-"

I nodded.

"But it means so much less to me," Tim went on, "than if I were sitting on a couch talking to a woman of grace and intelligence who was wearing an attractive sweater."

*****

This passage is a nice summation of my own thinking. That, on one hand, I love the idea of the life of the intellectual - pursuing knowledge for knowledge's sake, to mine books and other sources to reveal a new truth, some new understanding about the world, about ourselves, about me. Yet, all that pales in comparison to just hanging out with a wonderful woman on an autumn evening, an open bottle of wine at the ready, to share stories of our respective days, trade tales of our lives lived, revealing our secrets and passions. Can this same level of intimacy be found within the covers of a book?

That said, I finished the Baker novel a few days ago. Sure, it was somewhat slight - more a novella, and without much narrative thrust - but still great fun. I haven't read a Baker novel for many years - the last was most likely The Fermeta, at least ten years ago. (And who can forget his classic "phone sex" novel Vox, which I read at a necessary time in my life: when I was single and going through a dating drought.) I was reminded, reading The Anthologist, how funny he can be. Some of his throwaway lines had me laughing aloud with delight. Also, it's fairly difficult to dislike a book that is so passionate about poetry.

I have an interesting relationship with poetry. For years, I never really "got" it. It seemed impenetrable, or a form of language that was beyond my understanding, like hieroglyphics. (I certainly was quite lousy writing it as well!) Still, I've flirted with poetry at various times: I went through an ee cummings phase when I was in my last year of undergrad (I used a poem to help woo a woman, which was quite wonderful). And then I read some Rilke after reading the wonderful Letters to a Young Writer. Even music lyrics, which many say is our first exposure to poetry, didn't draw me in. I love listening to the rhythm of lyrics, but I never really read them. But it's only in the last few years, and largely through my work, that I've started to really make sense of poetry. My mind can now better decipher the language of poetry, that I'm more attuned to it. I now buy the occasional book of poetry (most recent purchase: Don McKay's Night Vision) and even dabble with it in my journal (although I'm still a terrible poet). Still, despite this newfound appreciation and understanding, it's doubtful you'll find me at a poetry reading anytime soon. I'm not sure I'm ready to take that leap.

In other news, I'm off to Montreal later this week, ostensibly for a meeting, but mostly to bum around for a few days. I was born in la belle province and lived there for many years. Even though it doesn't feel like I'm going "home" when I venture to Montreal - my life is decidedly in Toronto - it does feel like a return to my roots. (I still have a few friends there as well.) It's also been ages since I took the train, so that should be fun too (despite the inevitable delays).

the return

(Photo taken during a trip through the Andes.)

So I'm back - been home for a week, actually, but it's taken me much of that time to readjust back to a routine. Thankfully, the two-week vacation felt like a long two weeks, which I take as a sign that it was a restful respite. For those curious: yes, do put Argentina on your list of places to visit. (Do others create those lists? Argentina was long on mine. Other locales still on that list: Brazil, South Korea, New Zealand, Greece.) It's a wonderful country, one I'm sure I'll be revisiting in the next decade or so as there's just way too much to see in two weeks. I felt we barely scratched the surface, although that's largely because we decided we didn't want to be on the move too much. As a result, we stayed a full week in Buenos Aires (in a fantastic studio apartment to boot in a great neighbourhood), after which we made our made to the Mendoza region. Anyway I don't want this to be a travelogue - I've already bored enough people with tales of our trip.

Whenever I'm travelling, I always vow to change some of my habits and routines upon return. I try to set achievable goals, usually revolving around making better use of my free (ie., non-work) time. When I travel, I tend to take note of how others live. In Argentina (in fact, in most places I've visited outside of North America), there seems to be greater emphasis on socializing (or reading or whatever) over coffee at a cafe. I love cafe culture: the social part, sure, when I'm with a friend, but I also love to carve out time by myself, lingering over a coffee or beer with a book or a journal. It's something I tended to do much more when I was in my early 20s and living alone for the first time in the city. Sadly, it's also something I've got away from over the past few years. I can't even pinpoint a reason - maybe it's because there sometimes seems to be too much demand on my time that I seek out solitude within the confines of my apartment instead. (Not to mention that I've been running more after work rather than in the mornings, although with the time change this weekend it should be easier - and brighter! - to hit the streets and the park in the a.m.) I want to get back to that "me" from my early 20s. It shouldn't be too difficult: a quick walk to a local cafe or bar after work, with book and journal in my (new leather, bought in a Buenos Aires market!) bag is an easy task. I'll let you know how I progress.

Speaking of books, read the new Bolano, The Skating Rink, while in Argentina, which was short and wonderful. Also re-read Philip Roth's The Ghost Writer, part of my plan to re-read the first Zuckerman trilogy. (I ploughed through Zuckerman Unbound last week. I'm going to read couple of new books, Nicholson Baker's The Anthologist and Atwood's Year of the Flood, before I tackle The Anatomy Lesson.) I'm going to write about re-reading in another post since my experience with The Ghost Writer was quite different this time around than first reading it about 15 years ago. It's about being a new level of life and maturity to the work.