If technology destroys the book, what will become of the bookish?
In Coral Gables last night the Taipei Economic and Cultural Office was celebrating the Centennial of the Republic of China while, a few blocks away, Stacy Schiff was reading at Books & Books. I chose to hang with the Taiwanese, which meant I missed my chance to ask the author of Cleopatra about her recent review of a collection by one of my favorite authors. On the off chance that Ms. Schiff reads this blog, I am copying the letter I wrote to the New York Times Book Review (which chose not to publish it):
I hope that Stacy Schiff’s complaint of occasional staleness in Jonathan Raban’s essay collection “Driving Home” (Sept. 18) doesn’t discourage potential readers, especially since the charge, in at least one instance, is grossly unjustified.
Considering Raban’s account of the Mississippi floods of 1993, Schiff writes that it is “closely observed” but “difficult to appreciate” in the aftermath of Katrina. Yet the two disasters have almost no connection; Raban, on this trip, never ventured south of Missouri.
And “closely observed” is faint praise for a masterpiece of literary nonfiction that combines exhaustive reportage with brilliant interpretation. In it, Raban captured not only the news of rising water but also the essence of a Midwestern ethos – and, breathtakingly, tied the two together. “Flying to Minneapolis from the West, you see it as a theological problem,” the piece begins, and then goes on to compare the unruly river, in this “right-angled, right-thinking Lutheran country,” to “John Calvin’s bad temper ... the wild beast in the heart of the heartland.” For nearly two decades I have read aloud the first page of “Mississippi Water” to travel writing students, and no one has ever complained of a lack of freshness. Great writing has no sell-by date.
Wandering around Manhattan last week I was struck by the large number of businesses devoted to food. There were blocks with only these, restaurants next to pizzerias next to fast-food franchises. There were the familiar - Chipotle seemed almost as prevalent as Starbucks - and some that were new to me, like Maoz (wonderful falafel with a fresh salad bar). One day in midtown I walked past the soup place made famous by Seinfeld (and now selling T-shirts printed with the words "No Soup For You"). Then of course there were all the street carts grilling kabobs and sausages.
It was hard to walk a block without seeing or smelling something to eat. It didn't seem so much a health problem - people generally looked pretty fit - as a psychological one. New Yorkers, like other Americans, have become obsessed with food.
I stayed in a friend's apartment on the Upper West Side, and was disappointed to see that the Barnes & Noble at 66th and Broadway had closed since my last visit. Walking around the neighborhood I found a choice of edibles from around the world - many of them temptingly displayed and ready to eat - but no store where I could buy a book. On the Upper West Side, one of America's intellectual enclaves. There seemed no clearer sign that in the national battle between the mind and the stomach, the stomach has won.
Driving down Sunrise yesterday I saw the going out of business signs on Borders and pulled into the parking lot. I had felt little emotion when I heard of the bookstore's closing. I don't like the chains, their promotion of the popular to the detriment of the literary and the idiosyncratic, their centralized business model that causes local stores to ignore local authors.
But I still felt sad wandering through the already depleted stacks, past the closed cafe. (Where have all the laptops gone? Gone to Starbucks every one. When will they ever learn?) The travel narrative section had dwindled to two shelves, and most of the magazines had been replaced by toys.
On the bright side, when I paid for my purchase - a CD of Classic Railroad Songs from Smithsonian Folkways (it seemed to go with the superannuated theme) - the young man at the cash register didn't ask if I had a Borders card. Or if I wanted one.
Oliver Sacks' The Mind's Eye is, as the title suggests, about how we see and perceive the world around us. It contains the usual collection of unusual cases, like the accomplished pianist who can no longer distinguish letters (though she can still write letters - "alexia sine agraphia") and the woman who, after years of stereo blindness, suddenly sees the world in three dimensions.
The author inserts himself into this collection when he develops cancer in one eye and describes the experience of a suddenly limited world view. He notes that, with his loss of stereo vision, he lost his fear of heights.
The book ends, inexorably, with stories about the blind and how they cope. One woman explains that she loves traveling. Her traveling companions describe the landscapes or cityscapes for her. (I thought of that wonderful scene in Amelia, when our heroine takes the blind man by the arm and leads him down a street in Paris). "Sighted people enjoy traveling with me," she is quoted as saying. "I ask them questions, then they look and see things they wouldn't otherwise. Too often people with sight don't see anything!"
Sacks concludes: "Language, that most human invention, can enable what, in principle, should not be possible. It can allow all of us, even the congenitally blind, to see with another person's eyes."
I'm going to read that to my travel writing class tonight.