The thing about books
Over the last year or so I've found that I've begun to read less and less online, unless it's on a subject on which I need to do some research, or at best, the blogs of people I know in person. It's perhaps a kind of intrinsic withdrawal from information overload; one feels bombarded, and it becomes a tedious process of constantly having to sift between that which may be useful or otherwise.
I've never always earned enough to buy books, though somehow I managed through my student days with a small collection. All that changed when I began working full-time, and suddenly, there was a lovely way to fit in reading time — the commute to and from work.
By the time I left Melbourne almost three years ago, I had lost track of the number of books I owned. I'd also begun a steady collection of "to-reads" which I hadn't manage to go through before I'd left. However, I moved to Montréal quite a while before my Melbourne books followed suit, so until a handful of weeks ago, I hadn't seen a good two-thirds of my books for almost three years. The other third, you might have concluded, simply grew out of my time here in Montréal.
The time I'm making up for not reading quite so much online, I've gone back to my books. Reading a book is forever an intimate process; the touch, the smell, the sanctity of words on a page always virgin to your eye until you turn the previous page over. And the time I spend away from the deafening, fast-paced static of the digital world, I suddenly find I have the time to mull over details, to pay attention to the song being sung at the back of my mind, to the wisdom of words written to last.
Posted by sniffles at June 17, 2005 11:38 PMThe more books we read, the clearer it becomes that the true function of the writer is to produce a masterpiece and that no other task is of any consequence. Obvious though this should be, how few writers will admit it, or having drawn the conclusion, will be prepared to lay aside the piece of irridescent mediocrity on which they have embarked! Writers always hope that their next book is going to be their best, and will not acknowledge that they are prevented by their present way of life from ever creating anything different.
Every excusion into journalism, broadcasting, propaganda and writing or the films, however grandiose, will be doomed to disappointment. To put our best into these is another folly, since thereby we condemn good ideas as well as bad to oblivion. It is in the nature of such work not to last, and it should never be undertaken. Writers engrossed in any literary task which is not an assault on perfection are their own dupes, and, unless these self-flatterers are content to dismiss such activity as their contribution to the war effort, they might as well be peeling potatoes.
"The Unquiet Grave", Palinurus.