I’ve been experiencing a resurgence in my passion for reading. My love of books has returned to the level it was at when I was seven and had yet to be exposed to the notion of reading for work, or homework or school. Like my seven year old self, I am totally pumped to inhabit someone else’s mind, narrative and life. (Clearly between the ages of 8 and 24 I was too consumed by my own self-importance to lose myself in a book, but I guess things have tapered off now.)
In the past three weeks, I’ve read:
and I’m in the middle of reading Where I’m Calling From, by Raymond Carter. Before starting the Carver stories, I was finding that my renewed obsession with reading felt totally meditative. Subway rides were serene. Life was slower. My thoughts were more collected and dignified. Then along came Carter.
I started the book on a 1 1/2 long subway trip from Lefferts Gardens to South Williamsburg. I arrived at the party looking “distressed and tense” sources say. And I thought maybe I was going to cry.
I attribute my consternation to this list, which I devised while trying to ignore the techno drum beat raining on my head from the fourth floor.
10 Things To Ask Yourself While Reading Carver:
1) Is it going to get worse, or just stay this bad?
2) Should I have another drink? Or six more drinks?
3) Who cares?
4) Does this diner waitress uniform make my butt look fat?
5) Should I expect four, one or zero years of happy marriage?
6) Did my friend loan me this book because he thought I’d be happier at a mental institution?
7) Was this baby a mistake, or just an accident?
8) Why me?
9) If I cheat on my wife, but I make my mistress cry, is it still cheating?
10) Where the hell are my cigarettes?