Wednesday, January 26, 2011
So far this year, I’m doing fairly well in the reading department. In addition to finishing Proust, which my son and I started reading on the first day of August last year, I’ve made my way through Huck Finn, Tom Sawyer, and Oliver Twist, as well as about 250 pages of Montaigne’s Complete Works. And I’ve enjoyed them all immensely. The act of reading is so satisfying and complex. I mentioned yesterday the distance traveled while I draw; the same goes for reading, just as it does for writing. All are limitless, exhilarating, exhausting. I don’t read to escape. I read to understand, and to feel and live more deeply. I read to alleviate my ignorance. I read to be in the company of minds whose power and breadth is an immortal force. And I write for the same reason. The mind itself, beyond its myriad individual peculiarities, is also a shared force; mine is not inferior to Proust’s or Twain’s, only different — or so they allow me, by their good graces, to believe.