This week I'm in New York for the annual meeting of the National Writing Project. One thing I've noticed as I've flown here, traveled on the subway, and hung out in the city is that many New Yorkers care about books.
My seat mate on the flight here, an artist whose medium is ceramics, conversed enthusiastically about Richard Powers, author of Galatea 2.2, a novel I read this past summer. My seat mate had recently read The Echo Maker, Powers' newest novel, and raved about it. Powers is fascinated with human consciousness and includes passages about how the brain works. He explores artificial intelligence and the emotional and psychic reverberations that technology has brought into our lives. He isn't an easy novelist to read.
On the subway Thursday, I noticed a young man engrossed in a book of poetry. On Friday, another young man read a novel by Anthony Trollope.
I notice this every time I'm in New York. Many people read, and they read really good books. They can talk intelligently about books and keep up with what's being published today. Of course, people read in other places, as well, and there are many New Yorkers who don't read . . . so my point isn't that New York is an enlightened place unlike any other. Rather, being here reminds me that some people still read for pleasure. They don't read because of a class assignment, they read because they feel that reading somehow enriches their lives. I like that, not because I believe that books are inherently better than other forms of entertainment, but because I think that reading can require more focus, solitude, and patience than other endeavors.
Any ideas for books I should read soon?
