Alberto Manguel
I would ask why it took me so long to discover this writer, but I think I know the answer -- I'm an American, my mind doesn't get out that much. Anyhow, I'm currently reading two of his books and very happy to have finally met him.
His The Library at Night is my bedtime book. I initially borrowed this book from the library but it quitely became clear that I needed to get my own copy -- the urge to highlight and comment in the margins was overwhelming and that just wouldn't do with a library book. I love reading books by another true booklover --
Old or new, the only sign I always try to rid my books of (usually with little success) is the price-sticker that malignant booksellers attach to the backs. These evil white scabs rip off with difficulty, leaving leprous wounds and traces of slime to which adhere the dust and fluff of ages, making me wish for a special gummy hell to which the inventor of these stickers would be condemned.
And an even gummier hell for those bastards who put the sticker on the front of the book. But then I knew this man was a brother of the soul right from page 1 --
Outside theology and fantastic literature, few can doubt that the main features of our universe are its dearth of meaning and lack of discernible purpose. And yet, with bewildering optimism, we continue to assemble whatever scraps of information we can gather in scrolls and books and computer chips, on shelf after library shelf, whether material, virtual or otherwise, pathetically intent on lending the world a semblance of sense and order, while knowing perfectly well that, however much we'd like to believe the contrary, our pursuits are sadly doomed to failure.
Starting with the story of creating his own library built on a spot once inhabited by a barn that was part of his home in France, he goes on not only to discuss other libraries in various places and times (including some imaginary ones), but even more important, the various functions a library performs other than merely housing books. I'm in the middle of the book now, just starting the chapter on The Library as Workshop and looking forward to soon reading The Library as Island and The Library as Survival -- both ideas that ring bells with me as libraries have so often been both things in my life.
A Reading Diary is my purse book, the one I keep with me at all times to ready whenever I'm away from home and have at least a few seconds to spare. Here Manguel re-reads one of his favorite books each month for a year, and writes not only about the book but about everything that the book triggers in his mind, which can be some fascinatingly far-flung stuff.
The book starts off in June 2002 with Adolfo Bioy Casares's The Invention of Morel, which once again makes me curse the limits of American cultural exposure (tho admittedly I also haven't read a few of the books that are quite well known here) and vow to get my mind around more. This writer is from Manguel's native Argentina so there's a lot of childhood memories in here, many of them of the less than idyllic sort as you can imagine --
In Buenos Aires itself, people don't see the ghosts. People seem to live here in a state of mad optimism: "It can't get worse"; "Something will come up." Remy de Gourmont (to whom Bioy Casares owed an unacknowledged debt): "We must be happy, even if it is only for the sake of our pride."
I liked that one so much I not only highlighted it, but starred it. I've never heard the ultimate reason for happiness expressed better, and I'm very (if thankfully not recently) familiar with the need for living in a state of mad optimism. Of course we know it can get worse, and something will not come up, but you can't live like that and stay sane, and staying sane is how you stay alive even if you have to go a little mad to do it. It makes sense when you're in the situation.
The September entry continues my sense of union with Manguel --
I always write in my books. When I reread them, most of the time I can't imagine why I thought a certain passage worth underlining, or what I meant by a certain comment. Yesterday I came across a copy of Victor Segalen's Rene Leys dated Trieste, 1978. I don't remember ever being in Trieste.
I've done the first so many times, and can only imagine how interesting it must be to have done the second. Anyway, this entry is about French writer Chateaubriand but also has many memories of the attack on the Twin Towers only a year before --
A year ago today, my daughter Alice called me from Ottawa to tell me the unbelievable news that a plane had crashed into the World Trade Center. Throughout the day she called back, sobbing, with updates. She was alone in her apartment and needed to share the horror. Since I didn't have a television set, I listened to the radio. Not seeing the images allowed me room, I believe, for reflection while the carnage was being described. The hatred explicit in the act seemed overwhelming. How far does someone need to be pushed to breed such hatred of the Other?
I know it takes a foreigner to express it, because the Americans who tried got ripped up one side and down the other, but it's actually refreshing to see someone openly accept that 9/11 could not come out of the blue, totally unprovoked. I got so sick of what soon became the standard lie that "they hate us for our freedom". Could we please at least acknowledge that nobody's attacking Canada, which has even more freedoms than we do, and come up with a better lie to flatter ourselves with?
Eleven years and that's still bugging me. No wonder the towers haven't been rebuilt yet. But off this depressing subject and onto the much happier new list of books to read. I'm not sure I'll tackle all Manguel's favorites (I've never cared much for Goethe) but most of them are now on my library list.
His The Library at Night is my bedtime book. I initially borrowed this book from the library but it quitely became clear that I needed to get my own copy -- the urge to highlight and comment in the margins was overwhelming and that just wouldn't do with a library book. I love reading books by another true booklover --
Old or new, the only sign I always try to rid my books of (usually with little success) is the price-sticker that malignant booksellers attach to the backs. These evil white scabs rip off with difficulty, leaving leprous wounds and traces of slime to which adhere the dust and fluff of ages, making me wish for a special gummy hell to which the inventor of these stickers would be condemned.
And an even gummier hell for those bastards who put the sticker on the front of the book. But then I knew this man was a brother of the soul right from page 1 --
Outside theology and fantastic literature, few can doubt that the main features of our universe are its dearth of meaning and lack of discernible purpose. And yet, with bewildering optimism, we continue to assemble whatever scraps of information we can gather in scrolls and books and computer chips, on shelf after library shelf, whether material, virtual or otherwise, pathetically intent on lending the world a semblance of sense and order, while knowing perfectly well that, however much we'd like to believe the contrary, our pursuits are sadly doomed to failure.
Starting with the story of creating his own library built on a spot once inhabited by a barn that was part of his home in France, he goes on not only to discuss other libraries in various places and times (including some imaginary ones), but even more important, the various functions a library performs other than merely housing books. I'm in the middle of the book now, just starting the chapter on The Library as Workshop and looking forward to soon reading The Library as Island and The Library as Survival -- both ideas that ring bells with me as libraries have so often been both things in my life.
A Reading Diary is my purse book, the one I keep with me at all times to ready whenever I'm away from home and have at least a few seconds to spare. Here Manguel re-reads one of his favorite books each month for a year, and writes not only about the book but about everything that the book triggers in his mind, which can be some fascinatingly far-flung stuff.
The book starts off in June 2002 with Adolfo Bioy Casares's The Invention of Morel, which once again makes me curse the limits of American cultural exposure (tho admittedly I also haven't read a few of the books that are quite well known here) and vow to get my mind around more. This writer is from Manguel's native Argentina so there's a lot of childhood memories in here, many of them of the less than idyllic sort as you can imagine --
In Buenos Aires itself, people don't see the ghosts. People seem to live here in a state of mad optimism: "It can't get worse"; "Something will come up." Remy de Gourmont (to whom Bioy Casares owed an unacknowledged debt): "We must be happy, even if it is only for the sake of our pride."
I liked that one so much I not only highlighted it, but starred it. I've never heard the ultimate reason for happiness expressed better, and I'm very (if thankfully not recently) familiar with the need for living in a state of mad optimism. Of course we know it can get worse, and something will not come up, but you can't live like that and stay sane, and staying sane is how you stay alive even if you have to go a little mad to do it. It makes sense when you're in the situation.
The September entry continues my sense of union with Manguel --
I always write in my books. When I reread them, most of the time I can't imagine why I thought a certain passage worth underlining, or what I meant by a certain comment. Yesterday I came across a copy of Victor Segalen's Rene Leys dated Trieste, 1978. I don't remember ever being in Trieste.
I've done the first so many times, and can only imagine how interesting it must be to have done the second. Anyway, this entry is about French writer Chateaubriand but also has many memories of the attack on the Twin Towers only a year before --
A year ago today, my daughter Alice called me from Ottawa to tell me the unbelievable news that a plane had crashed into the World Trade Center. Throughout the day she called back, sobbing, with updates. She was alone in her apartment and needed to share the horror. Since I didn't have a television set, I listened to the radio. Not seeing the images allowed me room, I believe, for reflection while the carnage was being described. The hatred explicit in the act seemed overwhelming. How far does someone need to be pushed to breed such hatred of the Other?
I know it takes a foreigner to express it, because the Americans who tried got ripped up one side and down the other, but it's actually refreshing to see someone openly accept that 9/11 could not come out of the blue, totally unprovoked. I got so sick of what soon became the standard lie that "they hate us for our freedom". Could we please at least acknowledge that nobody's attacking Canada, which has even more freedoms than we do, and come up with a better lie to flatter ourselves with?
Eleven years and that's still bugging me. No wonder the towers haven't been rebuilt yet. But off this depressing subject and onto the much happier new list of books to read. I'm not sure I'll tackle all Manguel's favorites (I've never cared much for Goethe) but most of them are now on my library list.