In addition to preparing for next month’s tour I’m moving for the sixteenth time in seven years. And that’s not counting the year I spent living out of my car. Once again I’m hauling around these absurdly heavy boxes of hundreds and hundreds of books. Books I’ve read and ones I probably never will get to.
One of the first distinctly “grown-up” epiphanies I had was sitting in English class, surveying the summer reading options, and realizing there was no way I could read all the books I wanted to that summer. Or in my lifetime. Now when I go to a bookstore (something I try to avoid) this bittersweet knowledge accompanies the initial thrill of building a tower at the end of the aisle.
My new year’s resolution was to read less and I guess I got what I asked for because I hardly ever read anymore. As a writer I need to protect any precious “free” time I have. However the other night while packing I came across The Old Man and The Sea, which somehow slipped through my primary education. As it’s short I decided to take a break by the fire – we are literally burning down the house -
(that’s part of the garage – it burns really well! – please be sure to check your smoke alarms)
- and to take advantage of a luxury I will miss the next couple months of traveling. Inside I discovered that this copy was from my mom’s ninth grade English class. Not only did this little book carry one of the greatest pieces ever written in the English language, but it also carried personal history, complete with practiced forgeries:
I smiled at the memory of sitting in my high school English class and practicing my autograph as my classmates discussed themes and content when I just really wanted to talk about the beauty of a particular line or the music of a particular word. This is why I willingly choose back pain – carrying these boxes up and down stairs every few months – over a gadget like Kindle. Because there is nothing more beautiful than curling up with a real book made from real trees with the real smells, thoughts, and impressions of previous readers.
It might even be more intimate than going to see someone sing onstage… which is what I have to get ready for now. I’m recording a webcast this afternoon before my show at Googie’s @ the Living Room! I hope you’ll come, or if you’re not in NYC, stay home with a good read.
But first I must cross the moat that is now surrounding our house:
Oh, how I loved reading those princess tales. Never thought I’d have my own moat! Cool.
I’ll leave you with one of my favorites from Walt Whitman, from Leaves of Grass:
WHOEVER you are, holding me now in hand,
Without one thing, all will be useless,
I give you fair warning, before you attempt me further,
I am not what you supposed, but far different.
Who is he that would become my follower?
Who would sign himself a candidate for my affections?
The way is suspicious—the result uncertain, perhaps destructive;
You would have to give up all else—I alone would expect to be your God, sole and exclusive,
Your novitiate would even then be long and exhausting,
The whole past theory of your life, and all conformity to the lives around you, would have to be abandon’d;
Therefore release me now, before troubling yourself any further—Let go your hand from my shoulders,
Put me down, and depart on your way.
Or else, by stealth, in some wood, for trial,
Or back of a rock, in the open air,
(For in any roof’d room of a house I emerge not—nor in company,
And in libraries I lie as one dumb, a gawk, or unborn, or dead,)
But just possibly with you on a high hill—first watching lest any person, for miles around, approach unawares,
Or possibly with you sailing at sea, or on the beach of the sea, or some quiet island,
Here to put your lips upon mine I permit you,
With the comrade’s long-dwelling kiss, or the new husband’s kiss,
For I am the new husband, and I am the comrade.
Or, if you will, thrusting me beneath your clothing,
Where I may feel the throbs of your heart, or rest upon your hip,
Carry me when you go forth over land or sea;
For thus, merely touching you, is enough—is best,
And thus, touching you, would I silently sleep and be carried eternally.
But these leaves conning, you con at peril,
For these leaves, and me, you will not understand,
They will elude you at first, and still more afterward—I will certainly elude you,
Even while you should think you had unquestionably caught me, behold!
Already you see I have escaped from you.
For it is not for what I have put into it that I have written this book,
Nor is it by reading it you will acquire it,
Nor do those know me best who admire me, and vauntingly praise me,
Nor will the candidates for my love, (unless at most a very few,) prove victorious,
Nor will my poems do good only—they will do just as much evil, perhaps more;
For all is useless without that which you may guess at many times and not hit—that which I hinted at;
Therefore release me, and depart on your way.
