No blogging yesterday because school was stressing me out a little bit. The class, human-computer interaction, is not exactly what I thought it would be. I was expecting more psychology and it is more technical and design oriented. There are only three women in the class including myself and only a couple library students. The rest are information science and computer science students. It makes for an interesting perspective but the IS and CE people talk tech way above my head about systems I have never even heard of but they either know about or work on.

In spite of this I am keeping up and managing not to be intimidated because I have experience to contribute that they don’t even if my tech-ese is not up to their level. Still, when we are being asked to come up with design and system failures, these guys can talk about fighter jets and nuclear power plants and I have to work to find things like light switches and clunky research database interfaces.

Since I’ve been feeling in such unfamiliar territory in class, I did what any sensible reader would do, request books from the library. Today I brought home Sea of Poppies by Amitav Ghosh because Grad told me to and other bloggers have been saying good things about it as well. I also brought home a comfort book, Reading in Bed: Personal Essays on the Glories of Reading edited by Steven Gilbar.

When I got the book it looked so darn familiar I thought I had read it before and just forgotten. But after looking at the table of contents I know I haven’t read it before even though I have read a couple of the essays in other places.

At my lunch break I decided to read an essay and did what I don’t usually do, choose one from the middle of the book. The essay, “The Magic of the Book” by Hermann Hesse, was perfect: smart, thoughtful, a little funny, and affirming. In the essay Hesse writes about how books and reading used to be sacred because generally only priests were literate. But now, with democracy, being able to read is no big deal; there is nothing magical or sacred about it anymore. Unless, of course you are a reader. People who are readers form a sort of secret society in plain sight. We are like the priests of old who knew just how powerful and magical reading is.

Hesse writes about books and life and spirit and then mentions the ever increasing number of books that are being published. He follows this with something I think we can all relate to:

Every true reader could, even if not one new book were published, spend decades and centuries studying on, fighting on, continuing to rejoice in the treasure of those already at hand.

Isn’t that so wonderfully, beautifully true?

I keep forgetting that the approaching weekend will be a three-day one because of the Martin Luther King Day holiday on Monday. I think I know one of the books I will be spending time with. And of course I will make myself snug in bed, cocooned in flannel and blankets while I read it.

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