Dear Reader,
Sometimes I think about why we read; why I read; why one would read. The other place, yes, of course- the destination that is not here. The other voices, the new landscapes. So, for variety, yes, and sometimes to be validated, and a lot of reading I think might be to increase one's status. This is eggshell territory, I know- I am suggesting, very, very faintly, that we read to show off. Why faintly? Because I think on balance, it is a very minor infraction, showing off our intellects to other readers who are busy showing off their intellects. I mention it only because I think back on my days, and I want to redact some of my show off statements. I have regrets about throwing my intellectual weight around. Don't you worry, though, I am still telling myself I am a paragon of well readness, an empress of big words and complex ideas; I am just hoping, at this point, not to sound like one.
And what of the less public reasons we might read? The personal, the private reasons; the reasons we don't tell everyone. The things we maybe don't say on our media platforms. We read for greater understanding, which might come under validation. We read to be comforted, I reckon, and that seems okay to me. I suggest another category, that we might call 'joyful surprise.' This is that great feeling where a sentence just yells out at you, flashing its poetic lights and sirens all over the page. This is a reason to read that can make you run and tell someone else about what you read, except you aren't showing off, you are excited and you actually want to share it; like a really great watermelon, or a cake: "Hey, you have to try this! It is so delicious!"
Yes, I am taking the usual scenic route: this is the sentence I want to slice into cold, juicy triangles and give to you today: "She went looking for Brandon's Memorabilia (a place one of her artist friends told her about) to load up on antique paper angels and fold-out valentines and other useless tendernesses." Eve Babitz, in Sex and Rage, page 196- in case you want to run out to your library and read immediately for yourself, the beautiful, exquisite phrase: useless tendernesses.
When I read it, useless tendernesses, I was stopped cold. It all came to a swirling, gyrating center: of course! It is all useless tendernesses! My whole purpose in life, my time here, the reason for doing anything! Useless tendernesses; all my paintings will be titled this from now on! I will get a tattoo: Useless Tendernesses! I will get two: on both arms, reading right and left, and mirror-wise, so I can see it too. The whole book could have been just blah blah blah printed endlessly, if there was a prize like this in the box!*
You might think, here, mistakenly, that I am being sardonic, or glib, or some damned thing, but what I am meaning is, yes, useless tendernesses, but not, not, not that tenderness is useless. The whole point is tenderness is maybe all we can try for, useless and all, useless especially.
* Of course it is a wonderful book, and not at all endless blah blah blah.
PS I had another photo I was choosing between to lede/lead here. It was a photo of book spines on my shelf- some read, some to be read, including Sex and Rage, but it felt a little show-offy, in a way that the sloppy stitch work on my denim shirt did not.
