"Though the pages of My Salinger Year are lousy with writers, at heart this is a book about readers, professional and unprofessional, who hunger for communion with the remote and often troubled authors they revere.” - Michael Bourne reviews My Salinger Year and a literary world now lost.
I read selections from my Intro to Philosophy textbook in the basement of my dorm in between loads of laundry, which I had to wring out over a drain in the floor before tossing them in the dryer. I remember rushing through my assigned chapters of Moby-Dick every Sunday night before class, when I would meet with three other students and a professor to discuss symbolism. And I remember my horror when I realized exactly how long “Song of Myself” was at two in the morning. But somehow that horror is gone now, and all that’s left is the quiet joy that came from spending so much time interacting with books I otherwise might never have opened.
July is the month of revolutions, so much so that in France’s upheaval even the month itself was swept away.
I never can quite fathom summer’s end at its start, and so my reading lists stretch on endlessly, too, crammed with long novels too unwieldy for the demands of other seasons.
"When people read e-books, they’re doing it on their existing tablets and smartphones, not on devices built expressly for reading”
At twenty you write poetry as if you were a nuclear reactor.
At thirty you write as if you were manning a nuclear reactor.