Three Books

There are three books half covered by a quilt next to a box of Kleenexes on my bed. Judi Dench on her delving into the psychology of the Shakespearean characters before bringing them to life on stage, “Held” by Anne Michaels, short stories in Italian by Camilleri. How differently one reads them! Most of my reading takes place around ten at night. I can’t possibly do anything but read once I’m in bed and waiting for the dark to fall. My one son has medicated my heels and gone back to his apartment a few doors away, to go to bed himself, while my other son, if it was his turn, returns to the demands of his computer. It’s early for me since the night will be long.

Reading the introduction, preface, or foreword might help me to decide which one I should open. I’ve often skipped what others have to say about the author, but an analysis of the text may set the book in its time capsule, give you an idea of the world in which it was written, or about which it was written. These, and reviews, might on the other hand discourage you from ever reading more, make you take a dislike to the author and decide you never want to even meet him or her.

These three books however are old friends and it is comforting to turn to them, to be inspired by them. So, should I read a few pages of Judi once more? It is as much about Judi, whom I greatly admire, as it is about Shakespeare.

That other book with a cover of dark tree trunks on a snowy hillside reminds me of an installation I saw several years ago (I think it was 2005) at the Victoria and Albert in London. “Forest without Leaves.” By Abbas Kairostami, Iranian. Bare tree trunks reaching to the sky. It included a poem by Mehdi Akhavan-e Salis, Tehran-Khordad. The poem is quite long, beautiful in its imagery, so an excerpt here will suffice.

“Holding its sky tightly in its arms, the cloud,
wrapped in its cold, damp sheepskin.
The garden of leaflessness, is alone,
day and night, with its pure, forlorn silence.
Its instrument the rain, its anthem the wind.”

“Its clothe is the cloak of nakedness.
And should it need a garment other than this,
the wind has woven many a flame of gold warp and weft.”

“If no warm beam of light emanates from its eyes,
and if no leaf of a smile grows on its face,
who says that the garden of leaflessness is not beautiful?
It foretells of conifers touching the sky,
now asleep in the coffin beneath the earth.
The garden of leaflessness, its laughter is tear-tinged with blood.
Eternal, aloft his wild-mane yellow horse,
swaggers therein the king of the seasons, the Autumn.”

The cover jacket of the book that took me back to 2005 is “Held” by Anne Michaels, a new discovery. One should read no more than a few pages at a time, relishing the beauty of her writing, the depth of her feelings, of her descriptions of love and what it is. “We know life is finite. Why should we believe death lasts forever? – The shadow of a bird moved across the hill; he could not see the bird.”

She speaks of love, desire, destiny. I add a snail. Discarded, the snail, undeterred, slowly creeps up the slope to its destiny, called by desire. Love is to hold and to be holden, to be held.

And the Camilleri? An old acquaintance. I have a whole shelf of his books, in Italian but also in English. One cannot help but be enchanted by the figures who populate his imaginary town of Vigàta with its police commissioner, priests and simple citizens. His plots are such that you can’t wait to find out what happens in the end. I don’t, though, find myself in a state of wonder as I do with “Held.” Or find myself hunting through my bookcase to see where my copy of Hamlet or Romeo and Juliet has been hiding.

Some books one reads just for the story, to pass the time. Some one reads to enhance one’s knowledge, from which to learn, and then there are the books one reads simply for their poetry, the sound of the words, the images. The wheel of life. The plot may be insignificant, irrelevant in a way. It may be nothing but a framework on which to stretch the threads, the fabric, of one’s thoughts.

Aside from the printed books that clutter up our rooms, we are surrounded by stories waiting for someone to transfer them to the printed page. For every person is a story, a living book, from when they first see the light to when that light gradually diminishes and disappears. There are people you meet and exchange a few thoughts with before consigning them to yesterday, there are those who make you think and question life itself. One can lay aside a printed book for another day. With people, it may take you a while to discover the story they have to tell. It depends on you, not them.