What I’m reading: Dæmonomania
, by John Crowley, and some comics by Jason, the Norwegian cartoonist who’s currently doing the 1-pagers in the NYTimes magazine.
What I’m listening to: 5:55
, by Charlotte Gainsbourg.
What I’m watching: The third season of The Wire
, and Bowfinger
.
What I’m drinking: Cherry Coke. It was that kinda weekend.
Where I’m going: On a quick trip to Louisiana next weekend, for Amy’s godson’s birthday.
What I’m happy about: That Rufus had a good time at the opening of the local farmers’ market.
What I’m sad about: Harvey Korman’s death. “That’s Hedley!” (oh, and Sydney Pollack and Yves Saint Laurent, too)
What I’m pondering: What intimation of mortality led me to go downstairs on Sunday morning and start pulling books from my library and putting them in the “I will never get around to reading this in my lifetime” pile. Later in the day, I found a neat article by Luc Sante about The Book Collection That Devoured My Life:
Over the years I’ve gotten used to the inevitable questions about my accumulation of books. No, I haven’t read all of them, nor do I intend to — in some cases that’s not the point. No, I’m not a lawyer (a question usually asked by couriers, back in the days of couriers). I do have a few hundred books that I reread or consult fairly regularly, and I have a lot of books pertaining to whatever current or future projects I have on the fire, and I have many, many books speculatively pointing toward some project that is still barely a gleam in my eye. I have a lot of books that I need for reference, especially now that I live 40 minutes away from the nearest really solid library. I have some books that exist in the same capacity as the more recondite tools in the chest of a good carpenter — you may not need it more than once in 20 years, but it’s awfully nice to have it there when you do. Primarily, though, books function as a kind of external hard drive for my mind — my brain isn’t big enough to do all the things it wants or needs to do without help.
