ode to books

last night, i finally finished the polysyllabic spree (nick horby). it's a collection of magazine columns he wrote over the course of a little over a year about what he's been reading. considering the intersection between what he read in that span and what i read is almost nothing, i found it amazingly entertaining. sure, he gives reviews of the books, but in process, he tells lots of entertaining stories, and makes fantastic points. it's a worthwhile read if you enjoy reading even a little bit.

next on the list are The History of Eastern Europe for Beginners which is supposed to have a pro-socialist slant and several historical errors, but it's a comic book, and i own it, so it'll be done in a few days anyhow. after that, the bridge at andau by james michener. by all accounts, it's absolutely brilliant. it's a true story of the 1956 revolution against russia in hungary. since that happened in october, i figure the 50th anniversary is perfect timing to read it. (what does my reading list say about me?)

(btw, if you're interested. the hungarians are still protesting. local elections are up in less than a week though. even though the PM (who they're protesting) isn't for election this year, things have calmed and focused on campaigning/voting to deal with frustration... we'll see how it goes next week!)

anywho, while finishing up the hornby book about books last night, i came across this passage that i loved. enjoy:

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Zaid's finest moment, however, comes in his second paragraph, when he says that "the truly cultured are capable of owning thousands of unread books without losing their composure or their desire for more."

That's me! And, you probably! That's us! "Thousands of unread books"! "Truly cultured"! Look at this month's list: Chekhov's letters, Amis's letters, Dylan Thomas's letters... What are the chances of getting through that lot? I've started on the Chekhov, but the Amis and DYlan Thomas have been put straight into their permanent home on the shelves, rather than onto any sort of temporary pending pile. The Dylan Thomas I saw remaindered for fifteen quid (down from fifty) just after I'd read a terrific review of a new Thomas biography in the New Yorker, the Amis letters were a fiver. But as I was finding a home for them in the Arts and Literature non-fiction section (I personally find that for domestic purposes, the Trivial Pursuit system works better than Dewey), I suddenly had a little epiphany: all the books we own, both read and unread, are the fullest expression of self we have at our disposal. My music is me, too, of course -- but as I only really like rock and roll and its imitations, huge chunks of me -- my rarely examined operatic streak, for example -- are unrepresented in my CD collection. And I don't have the wall space or the money for all the art I would want, and my house is a shabby mess, ruined by children... But with each passing year, and with each whimsical purchase, our libraries become more and more able to articulate who we are, whether we read the books or not. Maybe that's not worth the thirty odd quid I blew on those collections of letters, admittedly, but it's got to be worth something, right?

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~