A History in Books

In the interest of carrying less, and moving more quickly, it was common for me to leave clothes or a towel, or disinfectent spray, or what have you, behind. Clothes were easy to leave, and if I met someone who needed my flashlight more than me, that was easy to leave too. The books I read, however, were difficult to part with (with the exception of McEwan's very whitey book, Saturday, which I found unengaging and insular). I was so attached to my notes in one book (Elizabeth Bowen) that I mailed it home. Another book I carried for 4 months without reading. I found Primo Levi in Torino, which was where he was from, and I read If Not Now, When? nearly three times in a row.  It changed my relationship to the world, while Italy was busy changing me, or perhaps more accurately, reminding me of who I am. My books traveled with me for thousands of kilometers. My journey can be told in a lot of different ways: chronologically, by languages, through the pictures I took, or the people I met, or by differences in food culture. I can also narrate the whole of the journey through the books I read, and how they influenced me along the way. 

Example :

You say "The Last September," and I recall a flood of human heads in the streets of Dublin, a moment of tearful  idolatry at Paul Leon's breakfast table in the James Joyce center, St. Stephen's Green with swans and a bower of falling leaves.  Becoming lost inside a snowy Monet at the Hugh Lane Gallery. The time I spent in the National Library: the most beautiful, round reading room I've ever been in (in such a place I will meet my true love). Greens, blues, greens, blues: I felt strangely like liquid in Dublin. Fireworks at night in Phoenix Park. Fireworks all day like gunshots. Spitting in the Liffey for good luck. The smell of the Guinness factory, which can be best described in facial expressions. Walking and walking and walking and being really truly honest to goodness lost, and the conversations that this (the loss of myself) brought to me, brought me to. In Dublin I was lucky because when I was lost, I always seemed to be in the right place.

 

Here's the list, just for fun. If you ever see me on the street and want to hear a story about Europe, just mention one of the following titles, and you'll have a hard time shutting me up. They are more or less in the order I read them in, although some were re-read and one (Ciaran Carson) I don't think I'll ever finish. I can't guarantee I am not forgetting something.

The Last September, Elizabeth Bowen
Saturday, Ian McEwan
For All We Know, Ciaran Carson
If Not Now, When?, Primo Levi
No one belongs here more than you, Miranda July
Power Politics, Arundhati Roy
The Curious Incident of the dog in the Nighttime, Mark Haddon
The Road, Cormac McCarthy
The Places In Between, Rory Stewart
White Tiger, Aravind Adiga
Life of Pi, Yann Matel
The Double, Fyodor Dostoyevsky