Hopefully I will continue to do certain things right on this blog: not over-selling travel, and not over-emphasizing books. Carried to extreme, both of these things are more than merely ridiculous. They are vices.
But combine two things that don't appear to be all that related, and some magic happens. Maybe that is what thinking is all about. When travel and books are combined, some memorable pleasure can happen. It won't happen often.
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'Be careful what you wish for...' is an old adage that must be in many people's Top Ten list. During the fire season in late May and June in the Southwest, I yearn almost obsessively for higher humidity, clouds, and rain. Well, we got some all right. Over the holiday weekend I spent a day or two holed up in my little camper-trailer, unable to do much of anything outdoors. Actually, what is there to do indoors, other than read books? (I had no internet connection.)
The good news is that I had an awfully good book to read; it was turning out to be fascinating, and on an important topic, too. Still, hour after hour in a chair, and with so little sunlight that I doubted whether the solar panels would charge the batteries. (I only have two small windows and a roof vent.)
Who was the writer who said, "...sicklied over, by the pale cast of thought"? Something seems wrong with the universe when sun doesn't shine -- at this time of the year, in this part of world. At moments the rectangle of soggy, half-hearted light hitting my kitchen counter would brighten. Usually, the edge of this anti-shadow would crispen. It seemed to almost crackle with fire. I would jump away from the book, and run to my solar controller to see what amperage appeared.
Why was it so important to see a number? But it was! And then the crisp rectangle would melt into near nothingness, and Hope sank back into the cold mud. On and on this went. Would I see a high amperage only when the edge of the rectangle was crisp, or would the overall brightness of the rectangle of light matter more? I got sucked into being obsessively observant of the number of amps versus the visual and emotional impression of it.
Then it hit me: that I was acting out in my camping-life, exactly what the book was about. The book was "Rousseau and Romanticism," by Irving Babbitt. (free ebook at Gutenberg.org) The author spent quite a bit of time explaining the conflict between the Romanticist and the humanistic Classicist. Since it was a busy holiday weekend, there were opportunities to observe real people and wonder how they and their style fit into this book. More of that later, perhaps.
For the time being, I can only gush how charming it is to have a metaphor creep up on you like this. Normally you think of a metaphor as being deliberately created by the writer. But when the self-consciousness disappears, and the metaphor comes in from the outside and imposes itself on you, it seems so much more alive and exciting.
But combine two things that don't appear to be all that related, and some magic happens. Maybe that is what thinking is all about. When travel and books are combined, some memorable pleasure can happen. It won't happen often.
___________________________
'Be careful what you wish for...' is an old adage that must be in many people's Top Ten list. During the fire season in late May and June in the Southwest, I yearn almost obsessively for higher humidity, clouds, and rain. Well, we got some all right. Over the holiday weekend I spent a day or two holed up in my little camper-trailer, unable to do much of anything outdoors. Actually, what is there to do indoors, other than read books? (I had no internet connection.)
The good news is that I had an awfully good book to read; it was turning out to be fascinating, and on an important topic, too. Still, hour after hour in a chair, and with so little sunlight that I doubted whether the solar panels would charge the batteries. (I only have two small windows and a roof vent.)
Who was the writer who said, "...sicklied over, by the pale cast of thought"? Something seems wrong with the universe when sun doesn't shine -- at this time of the year, in this part of world. At moments the rectangle of soggy, half-hearted light hitting my kitchen counter would brighten. Usually, the edge of this anti-shadow would crispen. It seemed to almost crackle with fire. I would jump away from the book, and run to my solar controller to see what amperage appeared.
Why was it so important to see a number? But it was! And then the crisp rectangle would melt into near nothingness, and Hope sank back into the cold mud. On and on this went. Would I see a high amperage only when the edge of the rectangle was crisp, or would the overall brightness of the rectangle of light matter more? I got sucked into being obsessively observant of the number of amps versus the visual and emotional impression of it.
Then it hit me: that I was acting out in my camping-life, exactly what the book was about. The book was "Rousseau and Romanticism," by Irving Babbitt. (free ebook at Gutenberg.org) The author spent quite a bit of time explaining the conflict between the Romanticist and the humanistic Classicist. Since it was a busy holiday weekend, there were opportunities to observe real people and wonder how they and their style fit into this book. More of that later, perhaps.
For the time being, I can only gush how charming it is to have a metaphor creep up on you like this. Normally you think of a metaphor as being deliberately created by the writer. But when the self-consciousness disappears, and the metaphor comes in from the outside and imposes itself on you, it seems so much more alive and exciting.
Comments
The quote is from Hamlet by Shakespeare which I think you knew - this was a pop quiz was it not?
"Thus conscience does make cowards of us all,
And thus the native hue of resolution
Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought,
And enterprises of great pith and moment
With this regard their currents turn awry,
And lose the name of action."