I have a beautiful bookshelf tucked into our living room wall, which contains a plethora of books. I have an old rocker next to the bookshelf and a decent lamp that gives adequate light for reading.
Sometimes, when people step into our home, they can’t see me sitting there, almost like I’m invisible. Or, maybe, I have literally stepped into the book I’m reading and am no longer there to be seen.
The other day, I picked The Lost Art of Reading: Why Books Matter in a Distracted Time, by David L. Ulin from my bookshelf, a book I purchased in Casper, Wyoming at Wind City Books in March of 2014.
I like to make a note of when and where I acquire a book. A memory will surface when reading the note, a feeling of paper, and the printed word. I’m comforted with that past connection. When a note is not present, I feel I’m missing something tangible similar to a missing puzzle piece—the picture isn’t complete.
When I was younger, books took me to places where I could dream big, walk tall, solve mysteries, and overcome adversity. They were my friends and confidants, fellow travelers, and mischievous hobnobbers. I never went anywhere without a book. I still don’t, most of the time, and quickly regret not bringing one if I’ve forgotten to toss one into my bag.
Currently, I’m reading, Great American Short Stories from Hawthorne to Hemingway. I read these stories and wonder what happened to our language. Why do we use so few words today? Maybe if we used more and thought about what we were saying, we’d spend more time breathing rather than talking. Maybe we’d know more about what we were saying and why we were saying it.
“[. . .]yet, in the afternoon he was disposed, upon provocation, to be slightly rash with his tongue—in fact, insolent. Now, valuing his morning services as I did, and resolved not to lose them—yet, at the same time, made uncomfortable by his inflamed ways after twelve o’clock—and being a man of peace, unwilling by my admonitions to call forth unseemly retorts from him, I took upon me one Saturday noon (he was always worse on Saturdays) to hint to him, very kindly, that perhaps, now that he was growing old, it might be well to abridge his labors; in short, he need not come to my chambers after twelve o’clock, but, dinner over, had best go home to his lodgings and rest himself till teatime. But no; he insisted upon his afternoon devotions. His countenance became intolerably fervid, as he oratorically assured me—gesticulating with a long ruler at the other end of the room—that if his services in the morning were useful, how indispensable, then, in the afternoon?”
We do have shorter sentences with fewer words, unlike this excerpt that’s three sentences long but an entire paragraph, though thoroughly enjoyable.
Maybe there are some benefits to fewer words.
If you’re a lover of books, what are you reading? Do you make a note of when and where you acquire a book? Curious minds want to know.
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