Wednesday 20 May 2015

the reader

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You sometimes wonder about the time of the book. Not about whether the book is now outdated given the emergence of other ways to distract oneself, other information technologies- must the book be reduced to those categories?- given, indeed, people's shorter attention spans. But the time that is in a book, the time we lose in a book, time lost to life. How does time get condensed, how does it deepen and gravitate around a sentence, a startling turn of phrase? How are we opened up to other times, other perceptions (are these one and the same thing?) What kind of duration is there in a book and why does the experience of reading one, with all its artificiality, seem more real than your own life?



from the Black Sun, the most beautiful collection of reader meditations i have come across over the years...




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8 comments:

  1. for how many of us, i wonder, is the experience of reading also the central experience of life, and so the time of being alive? except perhaps for being in love or losing all thought of one's own being in nature, it seems that this place where the act of reading happens is also truest to our own experience of self, this timeless interior where the book speaks and all else is outside ...

    she is perfect for this, lovely and somehow fragile as the ghost of the turning page in the second photo ...

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    1. yes, she is also the perfect reader, i think :-)

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    2. i mean, not also for this series of pictures, but also in real life, how she reads... she told me once that in her twenties she was very depressed, on the verge of suicide, and the only way she found to be able to continue to live was to isolate herself and read voraciously, day and night...

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  2. sunt lucrurile care mi-au venit in minte in seara aceasta,cu putin timp inainte. citeam un japonez, luptele lui de tauri in plina moina, apoi altceva, ceva ce m-a fermecat nespus. am fost, pe rand, taur, moina, kimono, am mers pana acolo incat am vrut sa simt pe piele catifeaua aceea aspra si protectoare a raiatilor negri, generozitatea hainelor negre perfecte; pata de pe carligele de lemn,umede. cred ca acesta este timpul despre care se vorbeste aici.este o minune. nu este explicabil, suna doar abstract si sforaitor daca incerci sa explici frenezia unui timp, a unei pasiuni, stapanirea sub care te lasi purtat dulce cand citesti. cred insa ca cel mai important lucru din lume este, uneori, atentia. copiii sunt cei care mi-au spus de multe ori-sau mi-au sugerat- ca o mina contemplativa este o mina trista, pare,cel putin.
    daca asa este, este tristetea cea mai dorita a sufletului meu celui mai neschimbat. mainile mele, o spun chiar si eu, se schimba imbratisand carti. nu mai recunosc, o vreme, nimic in jur. pana si imperfectiunea nu este decat o toana a rafinamentului.
    multumesc, draga mea, ca imi amintesti de toate astea mereu.nu le-as putea privi, fara tine; ar fi doar intretaieri si posibilitati...

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    1. oh ce frumos a imbinat draga lupta de tauri japoneza, cand am citit comentariul era un mister, dar acum stiu :-) si alte umili intamplari cu haine si carlige umede :-)

      sunt bucuroasa pentru seria asta, este una dintre cele esentiale, chiar daca pare atat de marunta...

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  3. hey, stop embarrassing me!

    :-)

    is this your bookshelf? love the old leather-bound books.

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  4. in mai!!! unde am fost eu in mai, de ce nu am vazut aceasta postare? ;-(
    oda cititorului. acum, cand cineva spune despre cerasela ca este cititorul real, ideal, singurele cuvinte care imi vin in minte sunt cele ale lui li, din emisiune. cerasela intra in biblioteca asa cum intri intr-o cofetarie, cu sufletul si toate papilele asteptand si intuind viitorul gust. se plimba printre rafturi, citeste cateva randuri, apoi zambeste si poate lasa cartea din mana. dar doar ea stie ce a citit, ce a visat atunci, ce gust au avut cele randuri.
    invidiez aceasta stare, nu am mai trait-o in bliblioteca de atat de mult timp. cand mi se face dor de ea, merg in librarii si acolo este cofetaria mea.

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