I’ve continued to read the essays in Anne Fadiman’s book Rereadings here and there. So far they have been delightful. An author’s passion for a particular book often makes me want to run out and read it too. But I realized I didn’t want to read the book, I wanted the author’s experience of reading the book. What I am enjoying is the writer’s enjoyment of the book and the story that he or she tells about it.
And that’s something else, these stories. Each essay has a story to tell about how the writer came to read the book in the first place, what he or she remembers of the first experience of reading said book and any subsequent readings. Then there is the story of what brought the writer to read the book again generally after a span of many years. The more personal the stories, the more I enjoy the essay.
Some of the writers make speculations about the act of reading and rereading as well as comparisons between reading as a child and reading as an adult. Arthur Krystal made an interesting observation:
Once the young reader gets past the stage where the brain sucks in books as if they were bubbles of oxygen, he or she begins to sense that Melville is doing something different from Steinbeck, and that Dickens and Balzac resemble each other in certain respects, but not in all. As children, we crossed wide-eyed and trusting into the writer’s world; as adults, we invite the writer into ours and hold him accountable for how he behaves there.
I haven’t decided whether I agree with him or not. Maybe it’s because I don’t have a good sense of what reading meant to me as a child. I loved reading, I know that, and I spent a lot of time doing it. But that’s not all I did. I was also busy with my bike and roller skates and skateboard and my best friend who lived two houses away from me. She had a swimming pool in her backyard, a big in-ground one. She also had an Atari with Ms Pacman. I had a big backyard and a Barbie RV as well as a ping pong table that, with the help of old blankets draped down the sides, turned into a nice “tent.” Books were important to me–my mom always complained when I was old enough and people would send money for birthdays and Christmas instead of toys that I would spend it all on books–but reading happened when I wasn’t busy doing other things.
I know I didn’t read critically as a kid, but I also know I didn’t read entirely without criticism. There were books I didn’t like, though maybe I couldn’t say exactly why. I don’t know that I was more trusting then either. As an adult, whenever I open a new book I am ready to be swept away and wowed. I trust from the start that the book will be good. I do not start a book expecting the author to win me over. I am already won over. I’m easy. When a book goes wrong for me it’s because the author has disappointed me somehow, has betrayed my trust and faith.
I don’t feel as though I invite the writer into my world. I see every book as it’s own, self-contained world into which I travel. When my Bookman and I are both reading can’t-put-down books and we come to a point in the day where we can sit and read, side-by-side, we look at each other with silly grins on our faces. One of us will say, “see you later!” and the other will say, “have a good trip!” Books have always felt like traveling to me.
Maybe that’s why I have difficulty with Krystal’s description of childhood vs adult reading. He, and he is not the only one because Pico Iyer describes the difference similarly, sucked in the books, breathed them, ate them, somehow consumed them. I don’t experience reading as consumption. I do not consume books because when I read “I” disappear. That’s why I liken reading to traveling, because I “go away” for awhile. The best books are the ones that make me forget I am sitting in bed reading a book. The worst books are the ones that don’t let me “go” anywhere. Most books are somewhere in between.
I have no idea where I am going with this or what I am trying to say. Thinking out loud I guess because the essays made me feel a little as though I missed something when I was a kid. Consuming a book sounds so exciting. And since several authors had book-consuming childhoods I sort of felt like an oddball. But I wouldn’t change my book “traveling” for anything. Oh the things I’ve “seen” and the people I have been!
I like your metaphor of traveling, and I think that was my experience as a child, probably more so than it is today. I tended to want to know everything about the worlds I read about — I wanted to know what it was like to be Laura Ingalls, for example. So I read and re-read trying to absorb all the details. It was very much like trying to time-travel — trying to put myself in a new place.
Interesting. I think I am more with Fadiman. I read unquestioningly as a child, but now I analyze as I go along, though at the same time I can be transported into the book’s world, if it’s a good book. But that’s sort of how I am in my life—I am never 100% immersed in an experience; my rational INTJ mind is always in the background with the lab coat on, observing and taking notes and postulating theories.
How very fascinating! It took me years to think of distinguishing between different authors (I remember wondering why the author’s name was in larger type on the cover than the title!) and even more years after that to realise that I cared about the difference. I feel my relationship with books now is very equitable. They talk, I listen and we both need to do our things with attention and engagement. But I do like the journey metaphor and know exactly what you mean.
A few years ago myself and a few close friends wrote our own version of Nick Hornbys ’31 Songs’ in which he talks about influential songs in his life and how and when they arose. It was a great process. Since I have thought about trying to do a ’31 books’ – but its never come as easily.
In part I think books and book reading is a more insular process – I might recall the book, but rarely details about where I was, what I was doing at the time. Its almost like the books are so self contained they dont allow for additional baggage to get attached to them.
For me I eat and then the pertinent cells all through my body absorb it and that’s when the travel bit comes in; because my brain is “me” it’s there that I’m aware of all that’s going on. I’m here but I’m in the book at the same time.
For some authors it’s more like we’re eating from the same plate (the book) and engaging in a sort of conversation about what exactly went on in the execution of a particular dish. Not quite the absolute absorption.
For others I really am in the book’s world — less about eating and careful consumption than a enthusiastic jump in between the pages, then a peaceful sigh and I rise slowly out again. Typically this happens with more plot-driven books although not strictly.
(I’m not crazy, promise.
)
I really like your distinction between consuming a book and letting it take you somewhere. It’s a really interesting point. A verbivore is a word eater so I guess I fall on the consumption side – however I too vanish inside a book in a way, I don’t just take it inside me. It’s kind of a balancing act, I suspect. A give and take between the book and myself – what part of myself do I let go to get inside the book’s universe and what part of the book do I take with me forever once I’ve read it.
Stefanie:
Totally interesting blog, for me.
I too, when i begin a book, ALWAYS approach the thing as half full. Optimistic, I am. And I long to be proven right.
With today’s great authors, realizing that I am trusting that they did some work… I am seldom disappointed, really. There are a lot of superb, worthwhile, contemporary authors out there.
Although I would describe myself as a consumer of books, I actually think I was pickier as a child than I am now. If a book had illustrations I didn’t like, or didn’t grab me immediately, I didn’t bother. And like Litlove, I didn’t pay much attention at all to authors, just to what I did or didn’t like.
I like your notion of traveling in books, though. I think the ones I end up loving the very most are the ones in which I do that, rather than merely consuming them. Maybe, I’m also like Imani: somewhat of a combination of traveler and consumer.
Hmmmm…not sure what I think about his comment. I know that as a child reading did wonderous and wonderful things to me and opened me up to the magic of life. Today I still strive for, and thankfully sometimes achieve, that same sense of wonder and magic when I read. I wasn’t a critical reader as a child and I’m not sure I am much more now, although I certainly know what I do and don’t want to read. Thankfully as an adult I’ve had some amazing reading experiences that give me an instant connection to my own childhood feelings of ecstasy in finding a ‘good book’.
Rereading is a big deal to me, and there are many books that I reread on a regular basis. I realize the cost of doing so is that there is some other special book I may be missing out on, but the risk is worth it to me as I am a comfort reader sometimes, and the comfort of revisiting characters and places I have grown to love is a life affirming experience for me that I would not want to give up.
I too love reading about what others read and their experiences with it. It often helps me tap into my own memories.
That is a terrific quote from Arthur Krystal.
I would love to place that as one of my Splash du Jour items… will you give me leave to do so?
I love re-reading.
As I have done, with this very blog itself!
Dorothy, I was intrigued by Helen Keller when I was a kid so i can relate to your Laura Ingalls obsession.
Sylvia, I know what you mean about that part of you in the lab coat. I should have thought to make a distinction between reading purposed. If it’s for fun, I put a bag over the the head of the lab coat part of my brain. If I am reading for a purpose like for the Slaves, my little analyzer has the clipboard out and is scribbling away.
Litlove, I think I knew books had authors pretty early because I knew there were some authors I liked better than others. I knew who Dr. Seuss was and how to find his books at the library!
Jem, 31 books would be an interesting exercise. I can remember where I read some books when I was a kid, but not why I read them.
Imani, I like your eating metaphor very much, especially about eating from the same plate. Do you ever get indigestion?
Verbivore, I like your half and half description.
Cip, I agree with you. Some authors it’s hard to go wrong with. And yes, of course you may use the Krystal quote.
Emily, that is great that you have become less pickier about books as you’ve gotten older, it shows a certain openness to new things. I had difficulty with some illustrations when I was a kid too. If I thought they were scary even if the story wasn’t, I wouldn’t read the book.
Carl, you may want to peep into Rereadings, one of the essayists talks about ecstatic reading. I like the way you describe re-readings. I don’t do it often because I don’t want to miss that other special book, but your experience of it sort of puts it in a new light. Thanks for sharing!
Hahahahaha! I think The Owl Service could go under that column. Also, Sarah Hall’s The Electric Michelangelo. I could get more descriptive (I’m actually kind of dying to) but I won’t, because I’d get kinda gross and I don’t want to scare any of your readers away.
Ha! I supposed Owl Service could go in that column. You have me very curious about Electric Michelangelo now. I remember when you were reading it but I don’t recall you thinking it was that bad. But then I wouldn’t trust my memory anyway.
http://imani.wordpress.com/2007/06/14/ugh/
The first time I mentioned it, it wasn’t so bad. Then it got worse, I abandoned ship, and now it’s sitting on a used book store’s shelf somewhere.
That does not bode well for me since I have the book on my TBR pile. But maybe since I have been warned she overdoes it with the metaphors I will be prepared.