On the Living Room Floor
There's a pile of books in the corner of the bedroom, another pile in a milk crate on the porch, another pile on a chair in my study, plus several stacks in my office at school—each pile is extremely significant! Loaded with meaning! Or so I keep telling myself; because otherwise, I'm face to face with the thought that my reading is chaotic and pointless, leading nowhere, haplessly flowing in circles...The pile of books on the living room floor near the sofa is supposed to be the hot pile: "I am so totally immediately immersed in reading these books that they have to be right here where I sit down (after a university day) with my Coke or my bowl of yogurt!" In reality, many days can pass without my touching some of these books, but to admit that and put them neatly on a shelf would be terrifying—it would be like saying "Okay I am mortal, I only have one little life, I can't do it all, the books will stand neatly and quietly on the shelves when I die!"
The pile of books on the living room floor this week differs
significantly from the pile that will be there two
weeks hence. Is this because I will have read this week's
books and put them away? I wish. No, the differences between
the piles are more mysterious; but I desperately resist the
view that the differences are merely haphazard, impulsive,
random. My life must have meaning.
What is on the living room floor this week? There is Allusion
to the Poets, a book of essays by Christopher Ricks.
He has been a great mentor to me, for decades, and often I
try to renew my belief that I can be a great (not just average)
appreciator of his work in literary criticism. I love his
perspicacity and his respect for the poets he discusses and
the awesome thoroughness of his study and the vivacity of
his language play—and yet his essays (such as one on
allusions in Keats's letters) have a meticulous kind of density
that stops me from reading more than five pages at a time.
His books dazzle me with reminders of what my mind can't quite
do.
Each pile of books probably includes at least one that represents
"the smarter deeper self I would be if I were really
reading this book." The pile on the chair in my study
includes my father's old edition of Boswell's Life of
Samuel Johnson. I feel my father in the afterlife wondering
if I have the energy to read it.
Also on the living room floor there is Bob Dylan's Chronicles.
This reflects my adoration of Dylan; but the fact that I didn't
finish the book many months ago reflects my anxiety: I don't
want to know that the book is mediocre, or has stretches that
are too casual or shallow or self-absorbed. I dip into the
book warily.
There is the Collected Poems of Stevie Smith. This
is to remind me that some day I should focus my mind on her
and write about her. I think I could write a good essay on
Stevie Smith. If I could focus my mind in essayistic mode.
But a lot of my mind wants to stay quirky, playful, impulsive,
not quite responsible—more like Stevie Smith's poetry
than like a useful essay about her.
There is Fatherless Woman, a collection of poems
by June Beisch. She gave it to me last week. She was a student
of mine in an Adult Education workshop incredibly long ago—in
1979 I think. I am relieved to say that many of the poems
are quite good, often with quietly surprising turns that convey
a gentle mature sympathy for human folly and neediness. Nice
to think that in 1979 I at least didn't destroy June's serious
interest in poetry.
There is an issue of The Laurel Review that contains
a story by my friend Tom Noyes, and if I were a good enough
person I would read his story and write to him about it.
There is a murder mystery by Josephine Tey entitled The
Franchise Affair because my mother loved Tey's mysteries
and I like to appreciate their nuances imagining her doing
so.
There is The Homecoming by Harold Pinter because
he won the Nobel Prize and shouldn't I know what I think of
him?
There is Molloy by Samuel Beckett because I have
suddenly "decided" to read it at last. But do I
mean it?
Meanwhile off to the side there is also the invisible pile of books I feel I should be reading instead of all the above, if only I were serious enough; this pile now contains Tristram Shandy (to reread), The Brothers Karamazov (to reread), and Daniel Deronda.
