Just after midnight, sitting in the dark, a book open on the iPad before me, and listening to Beethoven’s piano concerto number one, I believe fate had nothing much in store for me except moments such as these. Let the moment be, for these moments are ghosts who live here too. I no longer begrudge them a place to stay.
I wish I had a chronicle documenting every book I have read during my life–nothing fancy, just a sentence or paragraph or two with my reactions to the book–a sort of “the feeling of what happens” kind of thing. I expect one should jot down that feeling shortly after one has read a book so the feeling sticks before fading from memory.
I finished Stephen King’s 11/22/63 very early this morning. I admit I would not have read it if it had not been listed as one of the NY Times best books of the year. It’s a book I could have lived without which does not mean I did not like it in many parts. King does raise interesting questions about the nature of time and necessity. Let that be the feeling.
Now, the next book awaits: William Boyd’s Restless or George R. R. Martin’s Fire and Iceseries. It seems a coin flip.
A chronicle has begun.
At 9:20 AM Tue, 15 Nov 2011 I finished reading the whole of Proust’s In Search of Lost Time. What began as a project born of vanity ended with gratitude that I had lived long enough to finish it, and of course, enjoyment and admiration.
It is desire that engenders belief, and if we are not as a rule aware of this, it is because most belief-creating desires–unlike the desire which had persuaded me that Albertine was innocent–end only with our own life.
Marcel Proust, In Search of Lost Time
For some odd reason that I don’t know, I feel insanely quietly relaxed–as though a fever broke. The night beckons me to sit in the easy chair and read Proust. I’m toward the end of The Fugitive then I only have one more volume to go.
She’s a young bartender at one of the local restaurants. Yes, her boobs are spectacularly big. But she’s pretty and nice too. You are so smitten. It makes you wish you were young and not so shy.
I finished the latest Mirakami novel this afternoon. (Two thumbs up.). Now, I’m reading In Search of Lost Time and For Whom the Bell Tolls, flipping back and forth between them. And I want to tell you it is a strange experience–like reading and writing on this iPhone right now.
Maybe I’m doing it because I’m bored, and a little melancholy too. It don’t matter.
Close to 1:30 in the AM. All the lights are off in the buildings around me. I’m ready to start reading again. Who knows what hour in the AM I will cease reading?
Since Bloglines was taken over, I have not had a new spot to collect my blog feeds. But those days are over. I am slowly getting my favorite blogs transfered to a new rig that will work on the phone and the laptop.
Don’t look behind you because I’ll be following you. And you know who you are.
OK, I’ve decided. After finishing the latest Murakami novel, I’ll finish In Search of Lost Time. After all, I only have one more volume to go.
Sunday football afternoon: I have some bets down. I like these afternoons.
The city is oddly quiet this morning. So oddly quiet it is ominous. Maybe, reading Murakami makes it seem so.
Sunset arrived. Then thick black clouds. I sat in the dark reading Murakami on my iPhone.
Now that I think about it, the day was destined to end this way and night commence.
A man stands on his balcony in the building across the street. He brushes his teeth. Why do I care to write about it? I blame Murakami. Small events take on significance.
In what world did I awake today?
The big city is alright. But sometimes, you miss living out in the country where you can see all those stars glittering in a moonless sky.
I suppose that is like missing the love of your life who you have not seen all these thousands of days.
It all comes down to choices and the things you can never have back.
Worked on this week’s fantasy football lineup after I woke this morning. Then ordered the latest Murakami novel, 1Q84, and downloaded it to the Kindle. After reading the first couple of pages, it seems like precisely the right thing to have done just before sunrise.
The new Murakami goes on sale tomorrow. Shall I walk to the bookstore and buy the hardback or read the eBook?
Today, the thin crescent moon in the eastern sky has faded away at dawn; I’ll read some Hemingway this afternoon.
You are reading a one good book per day on your new iPhone. You are in the fast lane.
I miss blogging–a lot. But the only way I think I can do it henceforth is by doing it on my iPhone. A pity, since I can’t say much because of my typing skills.
Yet one feels the need to babble. And who knows, I might just get better at thumb typing–and babbling too.
She’s young and pretty with long auburn hair and writing on a yellow legal tablet as if she’s writing a poem.
At least, that’s what I’m hoping she’s doing. Then I’d be totally smitten.
I am reading Arguably, Hitchens’s latest collection of reviews and essays. After reading an article I say to myself, “yes, that is exactly how that subject should be treated.”
Hitchens is one of the most interesting writers–ever.
Somebody is embedding advertisements in my posts. What the hell is going on?