It Speaks Volumes...

Do you know the scene in Gatsby--funny, he keeps coming up; I love the book--when Nick and Jordan, searching for their host at a wild party, wander into an ornate and imposing library? Therein, they find a drunken man, "Owl Eyes," who exclaims in amazement that the books are real. They have never been read, they are "uncut," but, "Absolutely real..astonishing!" It's a testament to the level of meticulous detail that Jay Gastby exerted in order to appear what he is not--an erudite, worldly fellow, swathed in tiger and dripping with rubies. It's a scene I linger over. I am a bit like the owl-eyed man. I snoop in peoples' bookshelves looking for who they are.


When we first met, Larry told me he was reading The Alchemist--and said, rather smugly, "It's about me." Paulo Cohelo's book is a classic hero's journey, which means, allegorically, that it's about everyone and our individual quest for happiness, enlightenment, fulfillment, etc. I was glad to hear that. It's a lovely book, and its reassuringly casual, face-down-to-hold-the-page posture didn't go unnoticed (like when you notice the toilet paper flowing the right way (waterfall), that someone recycles or makes the bed or is not feared by small children--check). When I first meet someone, anyone, and am invited home, I take a sideways meander down the bookshelf first thing. I'm absolutely not a literary snob, but will admit that in this moment, I am fully sizing you up. This may be where they get the phrase, "It speaks volumes," for right away, you can gauge a person's interests, neurosis, secret desires, who s/he is or at least might like to be. You can tell (often) a person's level of education, including college major, get a read on politics, sensitivity, sexual adventurousness, how seriously s/he takes astrology, experience with both therapy and spirituality, where s/he has traveled, or would like to, and if s/he's a patient, sensual person who can cook. If you are curious, go to the bookshelf. If you see a book that looks promising, open it and hope the spine is broken and no receipt falls to the floor. If it does, you could be Gatsbied. Dog-eared and annotated, wine or coffee stains? Check. No bookshelf? Run.


When we first started dating, with Christmas upon me, I thought it might be the ideal time to flesh out Larry's bookshelf a little more. My literary spelunking had revealed little. I found out what I already knew, which is that he is REALLY into auto-racing: coffee table books, The Concise Encyclopedia of Formula One, a biography of Aerton Senna (who?). This was all textbook: mostly gifts, now minimally revealing shelf decor. There was the requisite copy of Men are from Mars, Women are from Venus. While you might think this spells sensitivity, a trained bookshelf detective might tell you that what it may actually reveal is a past relationship with a woman who'd have liked it had he been more sensitive and thought the book might help. I am pretty confident that no man under forty acquired that book any other way, and I can see the moment when he thought about throwing it away or giving it to his mom and though, "Nah. It makes me look sensitive." See how much you can learn, even from books that haven't actually been read?

There were more. Several books about making as much money as possible in the least amount of time. I can get behind that--someone has to subsidize my expensive teaching habit! He had Stupid White Men, eliciting a sigh of relief; it's not a fine book, but at least he knows; but--oh, dear--Michael Moore is a Fat, Stupid White Man? Who resorts to calling people fat in book titles? This means he may have some redneck friends. Another sigh--dangerous, but in most cases outsmart-able, and besides, many rednecks have fun things like speedboats and are fun to argue and drink beer with. Tolerance goes both ways, last time I checked.

In any (book) case, over the years, I have come to associate certain books with certain people or types of people and experiences, and while this is of course totally subjective, here is a (by no means) complete run-down of the possibilities:

Zen and the art of Motorcycles Maintenance. He is spiritually curious, though probably more of a swinger than a devotee, and he can probably save you a trip to the mechanic for minor car problems. The Prophet: he had a girlfriend in high school, or someone who wanted to be, and it is probably inscribed with hopeful, cryptic generalities about hte future. If they went out a long time, he probably also has Ishmael, and this likely shares a shelf with The Hitch Hiker's Guide to the Galaxy. These are all great, but like friends, not all books are, and in both cases quality wins the argument.

Self empowerment is wonderful and I look for reflective, evolving people in my life, so books like The Power of Now, which every man loves just like every man loves The Shawshank Redemption, are a positive sign. However, I become a little nervous if I see Tony Robbins, might leave at the sight of L. Ron Hubbard, and titles like How to Win Friends and Influence People make me want to take a shower. The Game, a mating manual for insecure misogynists (is there any other kind?), will have me faking immediate, contagious feminine problems. But here are some positives, lest we get too jaded lingering on this shelf: John Irving--great! It probably means he's already had therapy, in which case he's already gotten rid of most of the titles above. Literary heavyweights may suggest a non-lucrative college major (like mine, Liberal Studies), but this can't be taken for granted (or "for granite," as many of my students often write). I don't want to over-generalize, but I don't really believe anyone besides James Joyce has ever actually read Finnegan's Wake, and War and Peace may mean he has trouble sleeping; I used that book as a sedative for many years and only got up to chapter four or so. If he has any Virginia Woolf, I like to think he'd give you your space, hopefully with a door that locks and nice, big windows. I tend to associate magical realism with traveling (in fact there is a whole secret genre of books read by people who are traveling, available in any bookshop along the Kho-san road-- Shantaram, anyone?); so, if I see any Gabriel Garcia Marquez or Isabel Allende, I think I might be able to coax him out of the continental US--personally "traveler" falls right after "reader" on my "yes, please" list. Hemingway? You can hope he will tell it to you straight, though maybe too straight, as in six words or less. David Sedaris is good; he'll at least not be homophobic. And Kurt Vonnegut may suggest he isn't a creationist, so you can expect to have logical conversations. Jack Keruoac makes a great road trip companion, and if he has a dog-eared collection of Steinbeck, and you are me, you might as well take off your clothes. (Incidentally, I recently discovered a website entitled artofmanliness.com, and many of these titles/authors are on their list of most manly books. So, reading is a very manly thing to do. The internet says so, so it must be true.)

I will add here, in case I sound stuffy, that I am often wrong. But here is a sampling from two other owl-eyed friends:

Emily, a fellow English teacher (and funny, I had my thoughts about Palahniuk as well--way more suggestive of latent perversion than Lolita): "OK, so if you see Choke by his bedside table, best be sure to check out if he has any strange fetishes, or any colonial costumes? Or, if you've read Eat, Pray, Love, you're, well, pretty much any cool woman." (My addendum: if a man has read this book, it is highly probable that he will be able to tolerate how theatrical you can be and may come to love you eventually if, like me, you really want to spend a night eating pizza and drinking wine with Elizabeth Gilbert. Preferably in Italy.)

Cindy, now a mother of three who lived with our family years ago, once brought home a candle from the bar where she worked shaped like a blue unicorn humping an air plant, all glued to a log--so obviously one with impeccable judgment: "If he wants you to think he's romantic, Nicholas Sparks (of course you understand that he has no literary sense and probably listens to Top 40 music). If he wants you to think he will eventually become something important, despite the fact that he lives in his parents' basement, The Seven Habits of Highly Effective People on his milk crate nightstand. If he goes any which way, doesn't prefer a certain "type," Margaret Atwood (so many genres!). If he's reading Barbara Kingsolver, hold onto him like the mechanical bull in The Bourbon Cowboy."

Alas. My Larry had none of these books, and thus, little could be read. My hope, of course, is that I might reverse the process; you know, give him books containing ideas I consider fundamental, and hope through exposure to these ideas that they might take root or at least lead to some juicy arguments. Meddlesome? Probably. But it's what I do for a living, and so it's quite difficult not to apply the same logic outside of the classroom. It's not about changing who someone is, for if you don't already love that person, what are you doing there to begin with? It's about viewing the world through the lens of someone else's experience for two or three hundred pages. If I didn't believe that was fundamental, I would have gotten a business degree, or something.

So what books did I buy him? I'm not sure if there is a limit to how long a single blog can be, but if there is, I have surely reached it. And yes, I do realize that so far, three blogs in, I haven't written one world about Larry actually picking up a book and reading a thing, so, as it happens, this has been much more about me writing (and meddling and snooping) than him reading. But we will get there. Apparently there is a whole heap of context I feel the need to address before we get to the part where he read me to sleep last night. For now, enjoy the subtle irony of this, enjoy the suspense--Oh! What will he read?!--delivered via blatant foreshadowing, and go crack the spine of a nice, fresh book.

(One more thing: he actually did buy Men are from Mars, Women are from Venus. He just hasn't read it. Yet.)

The Literary Present

If a person does not enjoy reading, like my "Larry," and there are many who do not, I have several ideas why this may be the case. Mostly they involve deprivation or illiterate or executive parents who worked too hard and late to read at night; the other possibility, I learned from Cathy, my old friend and college roommate, bless her, and her relationship with the TV. We got our first TV when I was 12 or so. I used to walk down the street in my PJ's at dawn to post up on our neighbor's couch and watch Looney Tunes, so it's not as though I was above it all--no, I was a ravenous, bedeviled fiend, waiting for any opportunity to inhale processed food and allow myself to melt into the stupefying tranquility of the TV's comforting static for hours. But when I couldn't do that, for inevitably I would get sent home to my brown rice and my bookshelf, I read and read, later wrote and drew pictures, and my imagination, with the backdrop of California woods, flourished. When I sat down to read a book then, as now, I see the landscape and characters come vividly into focus; a "movie" plays in my mind, some author's dream scape brought to life behind my eyes--it's why movies are generally disappointing if I've read the book. Many of you (well, all five people who will read this) will nod in agreement.

Cathy liked to have the TV on as background noise most of the time. I rarely like to have it on at all. I find the sound of commercials as soothing as being stalked by born-again collection agents. So, I'd walk through, ask if she was watching, get a "no," and kill the beast. And within a few minutes, I'd hear it again. Cathy and I were great roommates for many reasons but our comfortable stasis was rooted in our complementary talents. Both in school, I helped her edit her papers and was always throwing new vocabulary words her way. ( I can still see her asking me if something was "dynamic"--and she'd do the air quotes; Cath "loves" air quotes, and she can make them work for her like few people can). She, methodical and organized, helped me with Botany by making flashcards and other tasks my non-linear brain couldn't abide. One day, Cath told me a story about how, around age 12, she was chewing her way through some reading in the kitchen with her mom, and all of a sudden, a picture popped into her mind, just like it came straight from the words on the page. I think it was a wheelbarrow.

"I see it! Mom, I see it!" She exclaimed, startling her mother. What, Jesus in the maple syrup, what?

For the first time, she had the experience of developing a mental picture of what she was reading.

I was floored by this story. I had no idea that some people do not "see the picture" when they read. Considering that it's a big--though until then unconsidered--part of why reading is enjoyable, it had never occurred to me that one could read and it would be a one dimensional, unfruitful ordeal, like sweeping a clean floor. Then again, many claim that math speaks to them with resounding clarity, the "music of numbers" or some such miraculous claim...but it was the first time I got that not all brains are built the same. I tell this story every year. I ask my kids, "Who sees the picture?" Less than half the class will raise a hand, only half of these do it with real confidence and genuine surprise when they see the variation, at which point it's too late to take back if your soul mate sees the world with math-eyes. I ask then how many of these kids read or were read to as children. The hands stay up, almost universally. Do they read still? Yes, mostly. Has school killed reading for them? Yeah, sometimes. "The books suck." But these are the kids who read in the class, and with a few exceptions, they are the writers as well. They see, and thus can create, the picture.


The rest of the lecture is not all mine--when teaching things that matter, they rarely come exclusively from the teacher; ironically, we are the greatest plagiarists of all--but it sticks because it is simple and true. I draw a triangle on the board, and each of the sides has arrows pointing both ways. Each of the points is labeled: you, text, author. I ask them what it means.


Math-eyes get it first: "There is a relationship between all these points?"


Yes, they are all accessible via each other. The author, in other words, is telling you something through the text. When you respond, in reading, writing or even thinking, you are responding to the author through the text or the text through the author. Then I draw a box and a stick figure sitting in a chair, with a line and arrow pointing at the sitting figure. This is TV. I ask, "What is the difference in this relationship?"

The difference is the picture. The text adds a new angle, if not a new dimension. One is forced to create the picture mentally when it is not provided; to visualize the landscape, characters, and minute detail, with the brilliant subconscious palate we all possess, but which many of us have filed away in lieu of technicolor or blueray or whatever it is these days. Thus, watching TV is an act of passive absorption, while reading, though solitary and mostly still, is an active process of creation and communication. It literally flexes your cerebral muscle, strengthens it, allows more oxygen to flow there; watching TV makes your brain switch hemispheres from the left (logic, critical thought) to the right (emotion), where it will release pleasurable endorphins that can lead to a physical addiction--an addiction, which (like most prolonged substance abuse) can markedly lower your intelligence. One hemisphere of the brain is not "better" than the other; we need both to survive. But one is more animalistic and less discerning. This is also not to say you cannot learn anything from TV or that highly intelligent people don't create what you see on TV, but the point is, when you are watching it, you aren't creating anything. Except perhaps a more generous posterior.

When you watch the same TV show, you say, Man, that was funny (sick, stoopid, unbelievable). But when you find you have read the same book with someone, it can be like this:

You have both, miraculously, visited (at a different time, though perhaps the same season--bright, cold spring?) the same tiny, Alsatian village--easy to miss on the map. Somehow, you both found yourselves lugging your filthy back pack to the same patisserie to get something to eat before the next train, though it seemed unlikely that anything would be open. With luck, a light shone, and you both--unbelievable--had what was fresh from the oven, warm pain chocolat, served to you by a sunbrown, sad-eyed, elderly man who said only please like it was a question and thank you you like it was an answer. You noticed, as you bit into those warm layers of pastry, sad with the first bite that you'd never taste this again, that there was a meticulously dusted and lovingly framed photograph of a beautiful woman behind the register, near a vase of fresh, red tulips. The difference between us is that I was certain, as I walked away, that this was his wife, lost to cancer far too young (it explains the sad eyes). You, though, thought it was his mother, a widow herself who left her only son this bakery--he never married--this also explains the sad eyes. We both buy more pain chocolat, which even an hour later will not taste the same, and make the next train to the next, bigger pinpoint on the map.


It's in the picture, the interpretation. It is mine, but also yours. The greatest of solitary activities, it brings us closer together in understanding, empathy, those waning resources. And, unlike the fleeting moments of our lives, books can be picked up and revisited with vivid clarity when we need. I recall a teacher saying to a student when I was training to be a teacher and felt, of course, like I had "FRAUD" across my forehead in neon lights: "You must, _________, remain in the literary present." I nodded with fearful authority (Why did I major in anthropology?!) and ran to look it up. I don't even remember what it means, but I tell students my version of it all the time:

"When you write about literature, do it in the present tense."

"Why?"

Because, I now say with my own assurance. In books, it is always the present. It does not become "the past" because you have finished reading the book. The image will jump right off the page at you as vigorously as always it did, and you will always wrestle with it and think you can affect the outcome. In the blur of life's sickening pace, books contain us and can be counted on. Pick one up, even the ones from high school "that sucked" (they probably didn't). Rose of Sharon will still lose that baby and nurse a dying old man from her breast. Romeo and Juliet will still royally butcher their chances at happiness. Anna will still end up under that train. Gatsby will still stand at the end of that dock reaching eternally for that elusive green light. And you'll still have hope, even if you know the end, because the literary present brings us right there, always. It's a great...comfort.



The world of course takes all kinds of people, and some of our most symbiotic relationships can be with those people with whom we share not identical, but complimentary talents. It is these people who can teach us the most, who with their difference can lead us to new parts of ourselves. Larry, whose "math eyes" gleam like a man at the races each morning as he watches the flickering green and red grid-scape of the stock market ("Look babe, here it comes, the market's opening--it's alive!" he'll say, giddy at 6:30 am) is teaching me the beauty of spreadsheets--dubious--but at least the beauty of growth in terms of bank accounts and gardens. TV has the unfair advantage already when it comes to luring in devotees at a green age, and his predilection towards reading was additionally weakened by the fact that he was allowed to start driving when he was something like 9 years old--what can compete with that-- but I have faith in the right book. This is our literary present.

Lead a Man to Water?

It's a mix of several idioms, those figures of speech I admonish my students to use with the utmost caution when only really nothing else will do. If I don't, it's a year about reading how we shouldn't judge books by their covers and how Rome wasn't built in day, how what doesn't kill you makes you stronger and if you aren't first, you're last. Actually that last one is from the movie Talledega Nights, which is appropriate for a number of reasons that will quickly become clear; also, it's the only saying there that isn't actually true, but the point, really is that when we rely on others' words to do our thinking for us, we very quickly stop thinking. Anyway, this has more of a patchwork purpose, so here are the contributors:

"You can lead a horse to water, but you can't make him drink."

(Michael Franti added, not at all un-originally, "You can put a man through school, but you can't make him think.")

"Give a man a fish, and he eats for a day. Teach him to fish, and he will eat all the days of his life."

There may be more. They all involve sustenance, learning, survival, self determination. They are blanket statements that cover many stories. And the stories are good ones, human ones. I'd like to hear them, but I'd also like to write my own. I suppose borrowing from cliches is a bit hypocritical from a writing teacher, but we're all hypocrites, aren't we, to some degree? Hey, "do as I say, not as I do." See--did it again. But in some ways, this blog is about overcoming just that. Because if I can't lead this man to the (proverbial) water, how can I be an English teacher? And if I don't write, what gives me the gall to tell others how to do it?


My partner Larry (not his real name, but that of a man he greatly admires) does not enjoy reading. He reads for information, direction, review. I don't think he even read my whole match.com profile, because it clearly stated that being a reader was somewhere close to "bipedalism" and "not racist" in my list of potentially attractive qualities in a mate. I chose my ridiculously underpaid and appreciated path in life--that which places me in the financial pecking order far below a garbage collector, even though I collect all sorts of garbage and have to read it!--simply because words and language and other people, our shared stories, has been a central pillar of my life. As a kid-an only child--I lived in books, devouring them with a hungry intensity that filled the long hours of summer afternoons, and many hours I should have been doing math homework. There are characters I still think of often as we do of old friends we don't get to see anymore. Anne Lamont's Rosie was a childhood buddy. Pippi Longstocking was my idol. Books are not objects to stack on a shelf or fix a wobbly table. Books are places. Books are people. Books are magical. Because books contain us like nothing else. You don't like reading? No. Impossible. You can not like a book. But not liking reading is like not liking food or music. I firmly believe that people who not like reading have just not met the right book. Period.


He's a smart, well-educated man. He delights me. Larry (whose real name is much sexier) teaches people how to drive race cars for a living and is one of those hyper kinetic people who is loath to stand still. As I have been sitting here pouring over cliches and wondering if this is good fodder for public domain and if people might actually think this is worth even addressing, he has busted though last night's dishes at light speed, packed a suitcase, done his laundry, is now vacuuming the house and likely, in his head, is planning to accomplish ten more items on an internal game plan that extends into the evening. He is highly productive, whereas I am often not. We teach each other a lot. He's made me slightly better with money, and I have introduced him to "feelings." We both have a ways to go, but we seem to be going the same way, and despite the fact that he glazes over and looks at me like I'm developing an alarming rash when I talk about books, and laughs outright when I try to introduce him to one intimately, our relationship works. I can forgive him for not reading my whole profile, which also said that if you voted for Bush you'd never share my bed, but he voted right instead of right-wing last year, and so I have a transitive hope that "change" is more than a slogan, but an actual verb. If we are going to grow old together, the shared landscape of literature is a journey I am asking him to make, still as it may ask him to be. And because he actually loves me in a way I haven't experienced before--meaning a healthy and long-sustaining manner--he's willing to take it on. For the next year, as we mesh our lives into one small living space, set up family with dog, cat and bookshelf, he is going to read. Or so he says. And I am going to write about this process.

My good friend Khephra, as we travelled to Emily's wedding last week, described the unsettling panic she once felt upon arriving on a (non-English speaking) island, having forgotten to bring books. It is the intellectual equivalent to heading into the desert without water if you are a reader. Books--but more than the body that contains them, the stories books contain--are as essential to the well-being of my soul as water to a thirsty man.

And still. You can lead a man to water, but you can't make him drink. Or think. But if you help him to love reading, he will drink freely and with great satisfaction and joy, all of his days. Of course, he must first be thirsty.