Sunday, July 25, 2010
Predicament. Over the course of the last month I've purchased six books. How many have I read? None of them. I have yet to discover why I do this. Maybe it's the fresh smell of crisp clean pages, sharply edged, and tattooed with stark new print. The musky strange scents of used books with their randomly abused pages. Why was this page marked? Who was Mendra Blanchard? Whoever she is/was, she had terrible handwriting. But maybe it has less to do with the physical ambiance and more to do with the abstract. The idea that each book contains a trove of perceptions, philosophies, and remnants of experience (imagined or fact) of the lives of others. A string of thoughts and imaginings pieced together and edited like the details of a spiderweb. Whether it's fiction or non, each book like a world of it's own; a peep into the reality of the writer (or protagonist for that matter). Hmm. That's it! I think I may just have a preference for the unknown -for the moment at least. The mystery and preconception of the unread Russian novel, or the New Age book explaining the meaning of life. It's the unsolved riddle that intrigues the most.
That has to be it. The reason why I haven't read any of my books yet. Either that or I'm just a spending whore with a loose pocket.