Take everything else, just bring me books...
Forgive me if I've sounded like a creaky curmudgeon on a few posts of late.
No excuse, but I think the heat and my health are getting to me.
Been resting this weekend. R&R, you might say.
I have read the local daily this afternoon and am working on The Times. The Book Review reminded me I need to start reading the Douglas Brinkley biography of Walter Cronkite I bought on its publication date. I'm going to do that in a few minutes when we finish our chat.
The other night, Jenn and I went with friends Bridget and Dewayne to McKay Used Books. Yeah, I needed a cart. But, hey, I got 10 or 12 tomes for about the price of one heavy hardback.
My fantasy vacation -- other than the Hawaii thing, which I'll try to let lie -- is to take a month off and do nothing but read. Oh, I'd throw in moments for music, too. Without a song, you see, the day will never end.
But, yeah. Me. Books. Four weeks. Fun.
I always loved that episode of "The Twilight Zone" in which Burgess Meredith plays the all-but-blind bibliophile banker who can't find room to read. One day he locks himself in the vault. BOOM! Nuclear explosion. He's the only survivor.
"Time enough at last!"
Then he trips and tears his glasses.
(Rod Serling was a sick genius.)
But you get the point.
I read a rather depressing article a few weeks ago. Its premise was that, simply due to the rather short amount of time a human has to read, we're going to miss virtually everything. Great novels. Good stories. Travelogues. Truths. Lies. Loves.
But, dammit, I'm going to give it my best shot.
Thomas Wolfe in waiting rooms. Alan Alda on airplanes. Dickens for dessert. Biographies for breakfast.
Here's the gosh-darn truth of it and if this makes me a nerd, well, I plead guilty as charged:
If somebody stole my wallet tomorrow, the thing I'd miss most would be my library card.
You can have my MasterCard and Visa. You're not going to get far anyway.
Just bring me books.