(An Article I Hope Everyone Reads in its Entirety.)
I have less than one hundred pages of the best novel I've read in six years, and the dread I feel for the characters' inevitably bleak futures is on par with the excitement that overwhelms me when I have a free moment on the subway to join them again, in spite of my two jobs, grad school obligations, family and friends, kick boxing, and Mad Men/Gossip Girl/Parenthood/etc. I can also recall, with great detail, the other equally unforgettable novels that trumped all life responsibilities, including the year and location in which I read them: 1996/Circle of Friends/the Catskill Mountains under a tree by the town pool; 2003/ AHWOASG/Allentown, PA on the deserted college campus in which I was (regretfully) employed; 2006/The Hours/Brooklyn anywhere and everywhere. When I meet new people, I read them excerpts from my favorite chapters, (wrongfully) assuming that they will fall in love as I have but a testament to the transformative experience of the great (American) novel. Moved or otherwise, in those moments, the listener and I are brought together because of a shared commonality that has brought you to this blog today: a desire to immerse yourself into the magic of the written word. In life, little else compares. Enjoy!
Stormy521 asked me to post this comment:
ReplyDelete"We...are always looking for cathedrals made of fire."
There was so much in this essay for me to absorb, as a writer, and reader. But to keep it simple, as an avid reader who has shared many, many conversations with the blogger about books, the conclusion we came to this summer was that if a book didn't grab you in fifty pages, to move on to the next book. I think we trimmed that number down quite a bit, but for me personally, it may take two paragraphs. As we agreed, there are just too many 'cathedrals made of fire' to read.