The way I prefer to pick books to read is much like the way I prefer to make friends. Naturally, through a chance encounter, or introduced by a trusted acquaintance. Our time spent together should not be forced- trying too hard makes the relationship chore-like. Our friendship should be genuine- not to make use of any gains this friendship may present or would it be for showing-off that I know somebody cool. Any book that I purposely read, just because it is a "classic" or other people love it or I want to appear sophisticated while sitting in a cafe- those books usually fall flat.
As we grow up it seems that it is harder to make friends. It also seems harder to find time for leisurely reading. Reading without an agenda. Socializing without viewing it as a networking event. And in my life, in the pursuit of being scholarly, my Ph.D. studies have taken time away friend-making and book-reading alike. It is the book-reading that has suffered the most. Books have been replaced by PAPERS. Science papers.
Although it is also the written word- somehow it is hard to feel cozy with a paper or find papers good bedtime reading. Sleep inducing, yes, but not appropriate bedtime reading material. Seldom do I feel like I would like to take a paper on vacation or to a park. I do not reread a paper for the comfort of familiar characters, like they way I reread Harry Potter, or because the prose sings. Mostly if I have to read a paper more than once is because I didn't understand it much the first time.
So scientists are lousy story tellers, or sometimes probably they don't have very compelling stories to tell. But survival in academia dictates that we must publish something even without a compelling story, and the day to day life of a graduate student means I must sift through these papers in case there is a compelling or at least useful story hidden somewhere.
And so by the start of my recent vacation, I was determined to get some non-paper reading in. In hindsight, it was fortunate my kindle recently broke. Ever since I acquired a kindle last year, I rarely meet books the old fashioned way anymore. Shopping the kindle bookstore is like online dating. The selection is limited and not so enticing. Some really good books are not available online. The store pretends to make informed recommendations, as if they know anything about your tastes. I always come away from it slightly dissatisfied.
At the beginning of my vacation, a Sunday in New York City, it was beautiful out, and not too hot. I decided I wanted to read a book in the park under a tree. Because it had been awhile since the book in a park under a tree scene has occurred in my life. So I found myself, on the Upper West Side of New York, in a cramped used bookstore, searching for something to read.
I usually find myself a shallow person- appearances matter. Slightly when it comes to making friends (so all my friends- you are good looking!), more so for dating, and extremely when it comes to books. Sometimes I will read a book just for its cover art. And I will refuse to read a book I was planning to read if the cover is ugly.
But I know all that is nonsense. That even though the author and editors have a say in the cover art, and that it is probably true that the choice of cover says something about their target audience or who they would like their target audience to be. It is also probably true that great writers and editors could have very very poor taste in aesthetics.
And so I encounter this book with a rather unfortunate cover design. It is pink. I love pink, but this pink has a gradient, changing from white to pink at the bottom, like a powerpoint slide. The title is pink "Women and Fiction", in some type of calligraphic font, and the three words take up half of the cover. The rest of the space is mostly filled by an incomplete list of the (female) literary greats it includes. And much more! It declares on the bottom. Something like a stock photo of a book with rose petals fallen on the open pages is sandwiched between the humongous title and the list of authors. It is small, appearing squashed by the title above it, and intimidated by the authors below it. It is not entirely the best cover for its contents.
It is a compilation of short stories. That's why it's so ugly. They made it for cheap and probably was not thinking about marketing it properly. Short fiction seems perfect for the park. It's stories by women about women by great authors I've read and have wanted to read. Kate Chopin. Virginia Woolf. Edith Wharton. Joyce Carol Oates…. Nice representation throughout the ages too. And it's only 4 dollars. 4 dollars for anything seems like a steal in the City.
So despite its rather disturbing cover I buy it and plant myself under a tree in Central Park near a Jazz trio. Some old guys are playing enthusiastically. They play quite well, with their sax, bass, and keyboard. And I feel quite luxurious as I slowly make my way through a few stories and lounge away the afternoon.
The next day, I am at JFK enroute to see my family, and I am having trouble with the self-check-in kiosk, so I flag down an "airline representative"
"What are you reading there?" says the airline representative who sees the book poking out of my purse. He's black, tall, fit, my age, maybe younger, being friendly.
"Short stories."
"I'm not gonna judge you, cause at least you're not reading 50 Shades of Grey." he teases. "I see people reading that everywhere, and I do judge them."
Suddenly I comprehend what he's assuming the book is, and if I knew how to blush I would, but I rarely show any color in my face, so I blush internally.
"No, no, it's not… I mean, this is literature. Like Edith Wharton and Virginia Woolf and famous authors like that, from all different times." I quickly rise to my book's defense.
He's apparently never heard of Edith Wharton. He laughs "Literature? It looks like…"
"Here." I interrupt and shove the book at him. "Read a bit of it and you'll see…"
He reads a paragraph of a random page or so, and says "I'm sure at some point a guy will come in and…" he catches himself before the verb.
I decide the situation is mute and give up and make small talk instead. "So have you read 50 Shades of Grey? I guess you didn't like it?"
He says, "Oh, my ex-girlfriend used to own a copy. I didn't read much of it. I prefer porn- visual stuff. But you ladies, you can imagine things. More imagination..."
I smile and we exchange a few other sentences about the difference between sexes. And I depart, amused, and pretend that I'm nonchalantly carrying around my pink "romance novel". But on the plane, I catch a few people reading the discussed "50 shades", and all of a sudden, I feel very very defensive and sad for my book. Because it is a rather nice compilation, and does not deserve to be classified in the same category a cheap romance novel with bad writing. I defiantly read my book in an angle that the cover is extremely visible, but pretty soon I forget about the cover, and get lost enjoying Gertrude Stein and her "Picasso-like" writing style.
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