Hello
Gentle Reader
Reading
is a pleasure wrapped in sweet solitary silence. The absorbing power of a
narrative that only you are privy to. No one else is a part of this experience
it’s just you and the page. This is perhaps why reading is also on the decline.
It’s not a communal activity. It is not a feat best suited for gatherings or
assembly. It’s a singular act. It is for the individual. It is a one act
performed for person, not for the community. Despite this, between the pages of
a book one is able to witness a plethora of events. They observe private
domestic dramas. They bear witness to grand battles. They contemplate with
philosophers. They review historical reportage, and its rippling affects felt
in today’s world, giving thanks to the infrastructure already laid by our
forbearers, or cursing them for their lack of foresight. Regardless reading
remains a private affair. One encased between covers, ensnared on pages, and
presented by a writer to their reader. You won’t find readers, holding up
lighters and swaying back and forth while they read. You won’t find them
cheering in a jovial chorus, with their noses firmly in their books. No,
instead you will find them sitting quietly (be it publicly or privately)
enjoying their books, with few sounds emanating forth. They smirk to
themselves, they may sigh; but they will rarely exceed these conventions, never
betraying the confidence of the book. If a book is boring or displeasing they
will shut it and place it aside—though some should be slammed shut and tossed
with great force, but such behaviour is out of character. The greatest benefit
or enjoyment of reading though, is the fact that it requires little effort,
beyond the ability to read, and a certain level of literacy and interest.
Reading presents worlds for readers to explore. Dramas to endorse. Battles to
survey. Information to consume. Books have unlimited potential and
possibilities. This includes math books. Their unlimited potential to drive one
to insanity, or be utilized by security agencies as a form of: ‘enhanced
interrogation technique.’ Then again, I have had the pleasure of meeting some
people who thoroughly enjoy the dry discourse of a math book. Though, as one
learns in primary school: it takes all kinds to make the world a wonderful
place. This inevitably includes people who read math books for pleasure.
Reading
can be akin to traveling, free from the complications of space, time, or
reality. How many librarians had advertised books as having the potential to
transport readers elsewhere? One young spunky librarian in particular tried to
market books as better then video games. Not surprisingly, no child took the
bait or endorsed her opinion. She tried hard though. To the boys she held up
books about space adventures, sword fights, cowboys, and mysteries (‘The Hardy
Boys,’ I presume). To the girls she paraded books about princesses, young love,
romance, and of course mysteries (‘Nancy Drew,’ I presume). No one bit. The
children sauntered on. In all fairness, though, reading was a late love affair
for me as well. I learned to read like any child. Who could forget the
elementary school stories of Dot and her dog Spot? Dry, barebones, and boring
is how those clinical educational devised tales are remembered. As one
progresses through the education system they are greeted with more interesting
material. One of my earlier enjoyments from the bygone elementary era of my
past is the story called: “The Teeny-tiny Woman,” by Paul Galdone. The story
was anthologized in some book, which the teacher routinely handed out during
English class. I remember the illustrations of the titular woman, dressed in
Victorian fashion, fit with bows, ribbons, buckled shoes, stockings and other Lolita
dress, carrying her little basket. In the gothic looking churchyard, she
discovers a teeny-tiny bone, and takes the item home. From there on out, the
Teeny-tiny Woman, is haunted by a voice, bellowing forth: “give me back my
bone.” Finally she caves and at the end of the story screaming: “Take it!” I
recall this story being played to the class. A soft wispy man’s voice read it,
accompanied by sound effects punctuating the narrative. I recall enjoying the tense
gothic insinuation of the narrative, but it would take a couple more years
before I begun to enjoy reading for pleasure. My childhood friends, enjoyed
fantasy and science fiction narratives. I could never understand them—and to
this day I retain the position that J.R.R. Tolkien is the biggest literary
windbag in the English language. I fail to understand how the concept of magic
is intercepted and governed by rules. Is magic a force of nature, and yet it
defies nature? Is it human invention? Then why place laws on it. It never
seemed logical, but that was my first mistake: seeking logic in fantastical
worlds. Secondary mistake? I suppose the strange names. Yet the hallmark of
reading in my childhood were the children’s renditions of the classics
specifically: “White Fang,” “Oliver Twist,” and “Moby Dick.”
As
I grew older, my reading preferences turned towards a literary genre not
supported by the school curriculum. The curriculum itself was designed to drawl
on and on, passing out dry and uninspired book, after dry and uninspired book
(and that includes: “The Lord of Flies,” and “The Grapes of Wrath.”) My
attention turned towards gothic and horror fiction, along with graphic
murder/thrillers. There was never an issue imagining those solitary gothic
castles, sitting degraded in ruin, their medieval histories sponged away
leaving only ghosts in their wake. Inside Byronic heroes brooded in their
crumbling inheritance; they are contrarily isolated from the world, while also
free from its strict social demands. It is there alone in their ancient walls
their eccentrics bordering on insanity. On the other end, I’d relish in the
graphic and sadist as well. Reading how a serial murder enjoyed clipping the
fingers off of his still alive victims; or the description of blood, bits of
skull, and brain matter splattered across walls. My appetites varied between
the subtle and the explicit. Imagine then, my disappointment where in my final year
of high school, when instead of reading: “Wuthering Heights,” we ended up
reading: “Wild Geese.” Though I suppose it could be worst, the prescription
could have been: “A Farewell to Arms.” However we did end up studying: “Death
of a Salesman,” by Arthur Miller, which remains one of the most pungent,
bloated, and dreadful works I’ve ever read; a true hallmark of the English curriculum,
and the ballooned gangrenous example of contemporary American literature, and
its Twentieth Century dramatics. “Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf?” by Edward
Albee, would be the superior choice, as if the academic world charged with
assisting young minds to be academically astute for the world would ever make
such a bold choice. No, it’s best to stay to the bread and water, and allow
curious readers to venture into more unchartered realms on their own. Sadly, I
believe how literary is taught in schools destroys any love of the form. A form
which has been developed and refined to record, inspire, and discuss the big
questions of human existence and meaning. Now it’s reduced as a form of
torture! Students grumble and gripe. Shakespeare is as much a curse as ‘fuck,’
or ‘cunt.’ Poetry collects cobwebs. All of this is due to the dry, uninspired
and poor way in which literature is taught, rather than fostered. To this day I
view poetry as some pompous ostentatious opulent form created for the sole
purpose of remaining cryptic and selective, arbitrarily defying the basic
principles of communication in favour of emotional resonance, which ricochets
off my cold exterior, alienating me away from its airy correspondence. Olga
Tokarczuk wrote it best in her novel: “Drive Your Plow Over the Bones of the
Dead,”:
“I
didn’t like poetry; all the poems ever written seemed to me unnecessarily
complicated and unclear. I couldn’t understand why these revelations weren’t
recorded property – in prose.”
(It
is best to leave the digression of my lukewarm relationship towards poetry
there, and reconvene at another time, with another column.)
Thankfully
the brow beating education system did not thwart my love of literature, or my
enjoyment of reading. It did however teach me a valuable lesson. The way
English (literature in general) is taught through primary and secondary schools
provided adequate foreshadowing and warning to pursuing any further education
in the field. I enjoy reading. I prefer
and demand the desire to read what I want, not the prescription of any third
party agent or curricula. Unfortunately this lesson was abruptly stamped and
sealed in my early adulthood, when I took a creative writing course taught by
an embittered failed poet. This man fancied himself a bard, despite his sun
blessed blonde hair turning grey and ashen, his face wrinkled and weathered; and
he only had one publication to his name. A small slim volume of poems, barely
bigger than a pamphlet, and best described as a step up from a chapbook. He
insisted on calling it a volume; a volume of his poetic voice. This ‘volume,’
sat in trophy place on his otherwise cluttered desk. It stuck out merely by its
positioning. Erect and glaring, parading itself to the class, a reminder of
who—or rather what—stood before them: a published poet; a published writer. An
objective each of them sought to achieve. I am sure everyone’s expectations of
the class were their own, but what was realized was surly less than expected. Each
week the instructor demanded a new submission. The following week he would
return each submission, shredded with red ink. Over the ensuring weeks of the
remainder of the course, the submissions became less, the effort dwindled, and
the interest evaporated. The instructor had used his failed literary career as
a basis for vexation against his students. He uncapped his pen and unleashed
his signatory red ink wherever he could. His criticism was never constructive.
Rather it was sarcastic, vitriolic, and acerbic. It took aim and fired. It
succeeded every time in destroying all aspirations any student had, leaving
them at the end just as embittered as he was. It’s true you know: misery does
love company.
Writing
has become nothing but a penance ridden action. Each keystroke or stroke of the
pen carries shadows of doubt, grammatical errors, and nagging criticism in the
back of one’s mind. The failures of one had become an infection to others.
Words once brought joy. Stories once fluttered in and out of their minds, now
flutter on whispering goodbyes. A lack of fostering, inspiration, and
eviscerating criticism can always turn the greatest enjoyments and treasures,
and replace them with rotting shadows of their former selves. Reading has
remained a solace, though these days both financial reasons and the constraints
of time have reduced my ability to devote time to it. Yet, I still gain
enjoyment out of researching new books, new authors, speculating about Nobel
Prize winning and worthy writers, discussing literature, and of course reading.
These activities bring freedom and solace from the greater concerns of the
external world. It is a retreat and a refuge, a private sanctuary—even if those
private sanctuaries are sometimes the most deprived, sordid, and sickening
places—yet even they provide necessary depictions of the world, and offer a
grounding appreciation to one’s own circumstances, and giving them the strength
of character to ‘carry on.’
The
bland world of academic teaching of English literature and the embitterment of
creative writing have provided me useful lessons. Never study what you enjoy.
It’ll become less enjoyable over time; unless of course you’re fortunate. Then
again, I’ve always fancied myself a pragmatist, and sought to study more practical
fields of study—while always attempting to avoid the insufferable erudite
elitism of mathematics! The high pontiff of the ivory tower, laughing in
madness as it composes its numeric symphonies, dry laws, and complex equations.
In time I will inevitably place myself on the sacrificial alter of mathematics,
and unceremoniously be torn to pieces with typical credulous enjoyment exemplified
by mathematics, especially its gleeful sadism. For now though, I’ll slink and scuttle around it via
alternative routes. Though, as one individual once recommended: I could always
seek education and a career in human resources. Needless to say: I’d fling
myself from the window like Lady Macbeth, before joining the impish devilish
realm of human resources, complete with its la-la-land perspective of rainbows
and unicorns. It is perhaps one of the most profoundly useless and ineffective
business functions devised and created by today’s corporate world. If the
bubonic plague took a corporate shape it would be in the form of human resources.
Despite
everything I take the opportunities I have to enjoy the books I have procured, and relish in the reading. I am
unfortunately not a machine reader—a talent I am not in possession of (which
apparently I lack in my grammatical abilities as well, but will work to
improve). Currently I am reading Olga Tokarczuks’: “Drive Your Plow Over the
Bones of the Dead,” and hope to have a review ready in the coming weeks—depending
on the time I can continue to salvage and allocate to reading it. From there I
weight my options of what to read next, be it: Annie Ernauxs’ “The Years,” or
perhaps Jacque Poulins’ “Autumn Rounds.” Until then though Gentle Reader.
Thank-you
For Reading Gentle Reader
Take
Care
And
As Always
Stay
Well Read
M.
Mary
