Like me, Emily Dickinson loved reading. (Unlike me, she had the talent to show for it.) Today, I present one of her untitled poems on the joys of books.
Unto my books so good to turn Far ends of tired days; It half endears the abstinence, And pain is missed in praise.
As flavors cheer retarded guests With banquetings to be, So spices stimulate the time Till my small library.
It may be wilderness without, Far feet of failing men, But holiday excludes the night, And it is bells within.
I thank these kinsmen of the shelf; Their countenances bland Enamour in prospective, And satisfy, obtained.
He is the patron saint of Naples. At the church named for him, the dried blood of Saint Januarius (or Gennaro) is supposed to liquefy three times a year:
September 19, the saint’s feast day
December 16
The first Saturday in May
When the miracle fails to occur, it portends “imminent disaster including war, famine or disease,” according to one website. Apparently, the miracle occurred again in September, but I have not been able to find whether the December 16 miracle occurred on schedule.
Januarius was a third century bishop of Benevento, Italy, who was martyred during the persecutions of the Emperor Diocletian.
For a number of years, I have pre-empted the name of Januarius to refer to my practice of using the first month of the year to read only authors I have never read before. My reasoning for this is to constantly broaden my horizons. For example, this year I plan to read several Cuban novels.
One result of my Januarius project is also that I read more women authors, which I had not done so much heretofore.
I will report back to you probably in early February if I have made any finds worth noting. (I probably will.)
I cannot help but think that that the literary reputation of Sir Walter Scott will continue to fade. After all, he can be diabolically difficult to read. His Guy Mannering: or The Astrologer (1815) is written in English, a broad Lowland Scots dialect, thieves cant, with numerous quotes in Latin, French, German, and Dutch.
Just the Scots itself can be challenging to most readers. The following terms were excerpted from the 20+ page glossary: aiblins, awmous, bestad, braw, camsteary, clanjamfray, eilding, fow, fremit, gumphion, niffer, sapperment, unco, and waf. In addition, my edition (Penguin) has some sixty pages of detailed end notes.
And yet I think that Scott is one of the finest novelists of the 19th century. The plot line of the book is a bit ridiculous. And there really isn’t a central character (not even Guy Mannering himself). At different times, the reader is confused whether to follow Mannering, Godfrey Bertram, Meg Merrilies, Vanbeest Brown, Dandy Dinmont (not a dog), or the eccentric lawyer Paulus Pleydell.
But if you are willing to take the trouble of trying to understand Scott, the rewards are great. He wrote so energetically, and his knowledge of Scots law is so impressive, and his language so vivid that the two weeks I spent reading the novel were an unalloyed pleasure from beginning to end. Even his descriptions of the wild landscape around Solway Firth are worthy of note:
Do you see that blackit and broken end of a shealing?—there my kettle boiled for forty years—there I bore twelve buirdly sons and daughters—where are they now?—where are the leaves that were on that auld ash-tree at Martinmas!—the west wind has made it bare—and I’m stripped too.—Do you see that saugh-tree?—it’s but a blackened rotten stump now—I’ve sat under it mony a bonnie summer afternoon, when it hung its gay garlands ower the poppling water.—I’ve sat there, and I’ve held you on my knee, Henry Bertram, and sung ye sangs of the auld barons and their bloody wars—it will ne’er be green again, and Meg Merrilies will never sing sangs mair, be they blithe or sad. But ye’ll no forget her, and ye’ll gar big upthe auld wa’s for her sake?—and let somebody live there that’s, ower gude to fear them of another warld—For if ever the dead came back amang the living. I’ll be seen in this glen mony a night after these crazed banes are in the mould.
Again, Scott is a difficult author, but I think demonstrably a great one.
My apartment is home to my collection of books, five to six thousand volumes in all. In addition to my library, which is dedicated to my collection, I have crowded book-cases in every room of my apartment, including the kitchen and bathroom.
There was a time when I could not visit a bookstore without buying several new or used books. In addition, I purchased books from EBay, Abebooks.Com, and a fair number of other Internet book dealers.
Right now, I am reading with great enjoyment Walter Scott’s Guy Mannering; or, The Astrologer (1815), the second of his Waverley Novels. Forty or fifty years ago, I would think nothing of trying to find the complete works of any author I liked. In fact, at one time I owned a complete hardbound set of the Waverley Novels. Now I only have some twenty selected titles—but in nice editions. In this, I resemble Dominie Sampson in Guy Mannering:
The lawyer afterwards compared his mind to the magazine of a pawnbroker, stowed with goods of every description, but so cumbrously piled together, and in such total disorganisation, that the owner can never lay his hands upon any one article at the moment he has occasion for it.
Guilty as charged! But now that I am approaching my eightieth year, I would like to find a good home for most of my books. It helps—sad to say—that bookstores, in disappearing from the landscape, furnish less of a temptation.
Tomorrow, I will travel downtown to return some library books (and get some new ones). I will be strongly tempted to visit the (appropriately named) Last Bookstore at 5th and Spring Streets and check out their more obscure Sir Walter Scott titles, such as Peveril of the Peak, Count Robert of Paris, Anne of Geierstein, and The Fortunes of Nigel.
But, really, who am I kidding? Will I really read all of Scott’s novels? If I live long enough, I sure would like to try. But why buy the books when I can check them out of the Central Library or download them on my Amazon Kindle. Old habits die v-e-r-y hard.
The above stamp was issued to honor the 103rd anniversary of the birth of India’s greatest writer of fiction: Rasipuram Krishnaswami Iyer Narayanaswami, better known as R. K. Narayan. Interestingly, he wrote most of his fiction in English. And it was Graham Greene whose influence led to the publication of his first four books.
I have just finished reading his short-story collection entitled Malgudi Days (1942), in which every one of the 30-odd stories competed with all the others for Best in Show. Over the years, I have also read a number of other titles—all of which I loved—including:
Swami and Friends (1935) which includes the cricket scene shown on the illustrated stamp above
The Bachelor of Arts (1937)
The Financial Expert (1952)
The Guide (1959)
The Vendor of Sweets (1967)
A Tiger for Malgudi (1983)
Under the Banyan Tree and Other Stories (1985)
Narayan’s fiction is mostly set in a mythical South Indian city called Malgudi. Once you start reading his work, it will seem like home to you.
I first started listing the books I read in 1972 and continued, with a six month lacuna around 1992, to the present day. Of one thing I am sure: It was Jorge Luis Borges who pointed the way to G. K. Chesterton. Though what I discovered from reading him is slightly different from what Borges discovered.
First of all, there was in Chesterton’s fiction what I call moral landscape, in which the natural environment in the scene takes place is affected by the feeling conveyed by the narrator. Take, for instance, this paragraph from the first chapter of The Man Who Was Thursday:
This particular evening, if it is remembered for nothing else, will be remembered in that place for its strange sunset. It looked like the end of the world. All the heaven seemed covered with a quite vivid and palpable plumage; you could only say that the sky was full of feathers, and of feathers that almost brushed the face. Across the great part of the dome they were grey, with the strangest tints of violet and mauve and an unnatural pink or pale green; but towards the west the whole grew past description, transparent and passionate, and the last red-hot plumes of it covered up the sun like something too good to be seen. The whole was so close about the earth, as to express nothing but a violent secrecy. The very empyrean seemed to be a secret. It expressed that splendid smallness which is the soul of local patriotism. The very sky seemed small.
If I were designing a cover for a new edition of the book, the scene described in this paragraph is what I would attempt to depict.
Thursday was my first Chesterton. There were lines in the novel that affected me strongly. In the same opening chapter, the poet Gabriel Syme is made to say:
“All the same,” replied Syme patiently, “just at present you only see the tree by the light of the lamp. I wonder when you would ever see the lamp by the light of the tree.”
What went through my mind at this point was, “Wow!” That line is forever emblazoned in my memory as the absolute height of imagination. I went on to read all of Chesterton’s fiction, then moved over to his essays and even his religious works. Curiously, although Chesterton is perhaps most famous for his father Brown stories, I did not read those until relatively recently.
But I have read The Man Who Was Thursday four or five times. As a matter of fact, I should re-read it again soon.
Jorge Luis Borges Story “Tlon, Uqbar, Orbis Tertius”
This is the first of a series of posts about literary works that got ,e started in becoming the person I am today. It all started with a New Yorker article around 1970 which introduced me to Latin American magical realism. I was enthralled, so I hunted up the two Jorge Luis Borges (1899-1986) books it mentioned: Labyrinths and Ficciones.
Borges really got me started on a quest that is still going strong more than half a century later. The first book I read was Labyrinths, and the first story in that collection was “Tlon, Uqbar, Orbis Tertius.” As soon as I read the following, I was on my way:
From the remote depths of the corridor, the mirror spied on us. We discovered (such a discovery is inevitable in the late hours of the night) that mirrors have something monstrous about them. Then [Argentinian writer Adolfo] Bioy Casares recalled that one of the heresiarchs of Uqbar had declared that mirrors and copulation are abominable, because they increase the numbers of men.
It turns out that Bioy Casares was quoting from a strange encyclopedia that the two of them decide to look up, but have difficulty finding, because different editions of the Anglo-American Cyclopedia have different articles.
I now own everything that Borges ever wrote that has been translated into English, and several in the original Spanish. Borges sent me in many directions. The next time, I will talk about how he turned me on to G. K. Chesterton.
Today I took another walk to the (on weekends, anyway) deserted office park. In my bag were three books I donated to the Little Free Library box at 26th and Broadway in Santa Monica. Then I sat down at a park bench and read the last forty pages of Georges Simenon’s The Hotel Majestic, in which Superintendent Maigret of the Paris Police Judiciaire solves a double murder that takes place in the cellars of the Hotel Majestic. When I finished the last page, I donated that book as well.
While I was reading, a very bossy young male voice emanated from the nearby tennis courts where Pickle Ball was being played. Somebody was carrying on a running commentary on the game with frequent snatches of advice. I cannot believe that the voice’s opponent enjoyed the outing.
Although much of the country is mired in a heat wave, there was a delightful sea breeze the whole time which was quite comfortable.
Let me see: At the rate of 10-12 books a week, it will take upwards of ten years to donate all my books. And I haven’t even gotten to the heart of the collection yet. Let’s face it, I probably never will as I am still buying books. I am totally incorrigible, On the other hand, I am living the bookworm’s dream that I dreamed from my earliest years. Never mind that it is not a dream shared by most of my fellow Americans, but it means a lot to me.
The Main Characters from Sir Peter Jackson’s Film Version
I have decided that I will have a J. R. R. Tolkien summer during which I will re-read the Lord of the Rings trilogy and undertake to read The Silmarillion for the first time. And I will see all three films in Sir Peter Jackson’s masterful film version. (I own all three films on DVD). I have already had the same book/film experience last year with The Hobbit.
Less than half an hour ago, I completed my re-reading of The Fellowship of the Ring, probably my favorite novel of the three, because all nine major characters are interacting with one another during much of the length of the story.
It seems that Tolkien’s trilogy never grows old. I cannot but think that it is one of the great literary accomplishments of the Twentieth Century. It is fantasy, but with an eye cocked at the growth of fascism in Europe during the 1930s and its harvest as the Second World War. I wonder if someone even half so good as Tolkien will chronicle our own uneasy times.
It was inevitable that I would re-read The Lord of the Rings for the third—or is it the fourth?—time. Too much of my memory of the volumes in the trilogy have been replaced by my memory of the masterful Sir Peter Jackson films. And a good thing, too! I was beginning to forget the Old Forest, Tom Bombadil, and the Barrow Wights, which were not represented in the film version of The Fellowship of the Ring (Volume I of The Lord of the Rings).
I first heard about J. R. R. Tolkien’s fantasy masterpiece from an exhibit at Dartmouth College’s Baker Library. A number of professors were asked to exhibit the books which most influenced them, and there, under glass, were first editions of the three volumes. I was enthralled before I ever read a word of it.
Only when I came to Los Angeles in the late 1960s did I find the trilogy being published in paperback. Naturally, I bought all three volumes and read them. I even read a very funny Harvard Lampoon parody called Bored of the Rings. (Do I still have it in my massive library?)
Now I am reading it in the glorious Folio Society hardbound edition, complete with glorious woodcuts and an Anglo-Saxon motif cover. Amazingly, I find myself being drawn into the story yet again, as if I were encountering it for the first time.
What a master story-teller Tolkien was! I must remember to also read The Silmarillion when I have finished re-reading the trilogy.
Tarnmoor 
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