And it continues

Bill Bryson's Home

Home is an omnibus of domestic history and a treasure trove of fun facts. Ever wondered how the Erie Canal was built (and/or how it came to be built)? Interested in the tactics used to launder 19th century dresses? Curious about the history of the phrase "above board" or what a solar is? Home has it all, and none of it's boring to read.

Bryson began his project when he became curious about certain taken-for-granted facts about private life. Why do we have living rooms? What's a hall for? And other piquant questions inspired him to delve deeply in to the history of how and why we have made our dwelling places 'home.'

As indicated earlier, this is a massive book, but very enjoyable. It's not linear in its presentation so it's easy to pick up after a long break without worrying that you've forgotten the narrative. Each chapter, named after a room in a standard house, rambles around a variety of randomly related facts before explaining the historic use of the focus room. For example, Bryson opens the chapter about the basement with the story of the construction of the Erie Canal. (I knew you were wondering about about how that got in there.) This is an English book, so it focuses on English homes, though Bryson does a solid job of including American analogues where relevant. Bryson is a jovial, brilliant writer who never sounds overly didactic or stuffy. This is a great read if you're a history buff or just plain interested in the evolution of private life.

Friday's Catch

David Fulmer talks about the writing process.

Jumpa Lahiri's essay discusses how she became a writer.

If you haven't already heard, Tea Obreht won the Orange Prize.

Not literary, and a little depressing, but good food for thought here.

The Joy of Reading

I have been thinking a lot lately about reading, books, and the way both are changing. As more people jump on the "reading contraption" option (nook, kindle, etc), physical books seem to be getting short shrift.

I went to the park the other week and noticed, as I walked over the bridge to the green space, that someone had laid out three flat boxes filled with books, presumably for the taking, on the side of the road. This good Samaritan had created small signs from crumpled paper to designate the types of books available: drama, horror, etc. No one was around and there was no donation cup, so it was clear that someone had dumped their books at the park rather than drive to the nearest used bookstore to donate them. Perhaps this happens often, but I have a bloodhound's nose for books, and I've never seen this. People usually want something when they try to unload their books, if only to compensate for their time.

I am inclined to overstatement, but I see this as symbolic of a changing time. Why worry about paper books anymore when they are so easily obtained in e-version? Why keep a bunch of dusty books around when they can all fit into neat rectangular machine? Why, indeed, worry about books at all? What is a book? The physical codex or the story it contains? Rather than wrestle with - or even think about these questions - people have jumped on the e-reader bandwagon with alacrity, leaving books gathering dust in closing bookstores, or on the side of the road, around the country.

As I mulled over these thoughts, I found myself enjoying three reading memoirs, books that praise the value of reading and the beauty of reading physical books. Whether it's snuggling up with a parent and reading Harry Potter, joining libraries after marriage, or collecting as many books for a private collection as possible, the following memoirs describe the types of lives real books can create for their readers.

Over the next few days, I'll discuss Anne Fadiman's Ex Libris, Pat Conroy's My Reading Life, and Alice Ozma's The Reading Promise. (I'd do them all now, but I have a sick toddler, so we're taking this entry step by step.:))