recent reading adventures

You’ll recall that I traveled to Seattle over the long Thanksgiving weekend to visit my son, daughter-in-law, and granddaughter. (They have another on the way!) I find flying tedious and time consuming and hardly an adventure, but it is an effective way to get from right here to far there. And I look on it as a way to get a lot of good reading done. Generally I treat myself to a new book to carry on, one that I can conceivably finish en route.

I began with great ambitions. This was to be the trip when I would re-read Moby-Dick. (I would not have finished it en route.) I have a nice paperback copy of the Norton Critical Edition that would travel well, and the night before departure I pulled it from the shelf to flip through it. I was daunted. It seemed too dense for easy reading in unfavorable conditions — it deserves close and careful reading and time for reflection, none of which, I’ve found, is possible on an airplane. (Plus the print was really small.) And so, that night I found myself at Half Price Books, scouring the shelves for something to take on the flight with me.

I settled on The Night Listener by Armistead Maupin. I’d not read any of his writing before, and the story looked interesting enuf to keep me reading on a plane. (Plus the print was not really small.)

When we got to the airport that next morning, I found that — yes — I had left the book on my desk at home, dagnabit! This meant that I would either face a nearly four-hour flight with only my murky thoughts to occupy me or I would have to find something tolerable to read in the tiny, over-priced newsstand tucked into terminal B at the Kansas City airport. I approached the newsstand hopeful and doubtful. (Would that qualify as cognitive dissonance?) Best sellers mostly, with a horrifying selection of self help and business management tomes. I read the titles several times, trying to find something I thought I could stomach. The least offensive-seeming was a novel titled All the Light We Cannot See by Anthony Doerr. I had known of this book before, but because it had to do in large part with (historical) Nazis, I had never picked it up. Pickings were slim, however, and boarding was approaching, so I bought it. It was only then than I noticed the embossed emblem on the cover saying it had won the Pulitzer Prize. Well, that took me from doubtful to full-on hopeful.

I bought it under a sort of lending-library scheme. I could return the book when I was finished to any seller in dozens of airports around the world and get half my money back. Then it would go back on the shelf for the next reader. I doubted that the copy I would return would be in decent enuf shape to be returnable, with it going in and out of my carry on, getting stuffed in the seat back pouch in front of me, and all of the rough handling travel tends to cause. To verify my understanding, though, I asked the cashier if I could return it to the bookstore in the Sea-Tac airport when I got there, and she said yes but then scoffed that I could finish it in the time it took to fly there. Well, I saw that as a challenge. At 530 pages, it was beyond me, of course, but I began reading it as we waited to board, determined to give it a try nonetheless.

All the Light We Cannot See turned out to be an engrossing read, an ensemble of characters well drawn with an adventure before them just up to the edge of being implausible, but not quite. I wouldn’t call it a deep read, but it was very good storytelling. I did not finish it before reaching Seattle. I got half way though, and if I was diligent, I could at least return it to the same newsstand where I had bought it when I was back five days later.

I was more than diligent. Given that our trip to Seattle was governed by the whims, patience, and naps of a fussy two-year-old, we didn’t do much sightseeing and I had a lot of downtime at my son’s house. (Remember that I finished writing one story and wrote an entirely new story while there.) I finished the novel a couple of days before our return flight. Fortunately, one of the places my granddaughter allowed us to visit was an outdoor shopping mall that included an Amazon brick-and-mortar bookstore, which was a sort-of sight to see of its own. I wandered the fiction shelves there (while she frolicked on the covered playground) and bought myself a slim novel (186 pages) called A Single Man by Christopher Isherwood. He is another writer I had never read before, and the novel seemed readable on the coming, shorter flight back home. (Tail winds and the conceit that it was “downhill” meant shorter travel time.)

Realizing that I would easily finish the Isherwood novel on the flight, I visited the Sea-Tac bookstore at departure to find something else to use up the remainder of my air time. And once again, the choices that would interest me were slim. I settled on The Painter by Peter Heller. I didn’t know this writer at all, but the blurb on the back cover sounded interesting, being either a penetrating view into the souls of several complicated characters or a tough-guy shoot-em-up. I couldn’t tell, but it was a book in hand that would fill the tedious hours.

When we boarded the plane I opened A Single Man and began reading. The style was interesting, and since I haven’t read much gay literature, I was looking forward to the tale. But then I decided I was going to close my eyes for just ten minutes. The next thing I heard was that we were beginning our descent into Kansas City. Dagnabit, again!

I finished the Isherwood novel several days after returning home (it was a good read) and then picked up The Night Listener, which had been waiting patiently for me. I was engrossed and managed to finish it quickly. One sign that I enjoyed a book is when I find myself interested in reading another by that author, and I intend to explore more of Maupin in the future. I’m also interested in watching the film made of it. The ending is ambiguous in the extreme, and I’m eager to see what they do with it in the film. (There is also a film version of A Single Man that I want to see now.)

Shortly after this I finished Born to Run by Bruce Springsteen (so you don’t have to). I had been poking away at this autobiography for several weeks and left it at home during my travels. This book was disappointing, though I suppose to fans it would be interesting. The book is packed with anecdote and admissions, boisterousness and betrayals, but throughout I found myself wanting to hear the other side of the many story he told. He seemed to be trying too hard to make himself seem like a flawed but decent man. At 500+ pages, I still found little in the way of actual substance in the book.

I am now reading The Painter. I fear it’s going to be the shoot-em-up, but I’m giving it a chance.

As for All the Light We Cannot See, when we got back to Kansas City I did not return it to the newsstand there for half of my money. It was packed in my stowed luggage, and by the time we had collected that, it was time to find the shuttle to where we’d left our car so we could dash off to the “camp” where we’d boarded our dogs. So the novel sits on my desk. A dedicated trip to (and from) the airport to return it would cost in gas a good chunk of money that would negate much of the refund, and with family coming to town for the holidays, it’s possible that I will be traveling to the airport. If I have the presence of mind to take the book with me should I make that trip, and I have the time whilst there, I could return the book then.

But my wife has said she might like to read it. She usually has a half dozen books going at one time so she’s not a fast reader (of a given book). The return window for the Doerr novel is six months. I suspect this book will join the others sitting on a shelf to eventually be donated to the small-town library near my woods in the Ozarks, but that’s a good thing too.

 

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One Comment on “recent reading adventures”


  1. Yes, donate it to the library so someone else can read it. I admire your literary standards. I go full schlock mode at the airport. There’ best be dragons, spells, government conspiracies, hot detectives, lost manuscripts, historical intrigue, or some combination of the above in order to distract me from the misery of being crammed into a tin can.


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