it was a pleasure to burn - fahrenheit 451

The kid is in high school now, and although her getting older must mean that I, too, must be getting older (yikes!), there are a few perks. One of them is getting to watch her discover things, like some great books that I read when I was around her age. First up is Ray Bradbury's Fahrenheit 451, a dystopian masterpiece. The story of a society, perhaps our own, that has decided that the ideas included in books are dangerous, seems eerily prescient. The floor-to-ceiling view screens that most of society, including the protagonist Guy Montag's wife Mildred spend their days and nights glued to easily double for our large-scale flat screen televisions, tablets, and smart phones. And "The Family," the drivel that appears on the screen every day is simply reality television and YouTubers. Fahrenheit 451 was first published in 1953. Montag is a fireman, whose job it is to burn books, but is growing increasingly disillusioned with his job and his place in society.

I listened to the audiobook version, narrated by Tim Robbins. He did a good job with the voices, and seemed to especially have fun voicing Mildred. Maybe it was hearing the book out loud, but  I was struck by how poetic Bradbury's prose sounded, how rhythmic. I'm looking forward to introducing my daughter to some more Bradbury (and re-reading some myself). I'm impressed with this book as a first choice. I wonder what she will be asked to read next ...

BTW — If you are interested in seeing a film adaptation of the novel, please avoid at all costs the recent HBO "adaptation" of the novel. It shared the title, but not much else. A huge disappointment. The Francois Truffaut film, starring Oskar Werner and Julie Christie, from 1966, is the way to go.

throwback paperback thursday

I come from a family that loves and collects books. I grew up with them all around me. I had books like The Wonderful Wizard of Oz and everything by A.A. Milne, but all of the Dr, Seuss I read was from the library.

A big turning point in my reading life came when I was finally able to read something from my parents' bookshelves. My mom and dad loved paperbacks, and one summer my mom suggested I try an Agatha Christie. I think I have always associated summer and beach reading with Christie ever since. Her books are still very similar to comfort food for me. The first Christie I ever read was The Moving Finger. I liked it enough to keep going, but I have always preferred the inimitable Hercule Poirot to Miss Marple.

We had a bookmobile that would come every week during the summer, and from there I found Louisa May Alcott's Little Women and Little Men. I even read Jo's Boys and Eight Cousins.

I never read The Godfather in those days, although my parents were share-reading it in the bathroom. I'm pretty sure I flipped though it many times, probably looking for something sexy or exotic. I read it many years later and loved it.

My dad was a big science fiction fan, and from him I discovered the amazing short stories of Ray Bradbury: Dandelion Wine, The Martian Chronicles, Fahrenheit 451, The Illustrated Man. Mom loved him too. We would talk about stories like "A Sound of Thunder" and "The Veldt." Another book from Dad's bookshelf that rocked my world was the creepy yet fascinating Some of Your Blood by Theodore Sturgeon.

My aunt and uncle gave me a selection of short stories by Kurt Vonnegut, Welcome to the Monkey House, which probably caused me to grow up a little quicker than I would have otherwise.

It will be interesting to see which books from my shelves make their way into my daughter's room as the years go by.

transformed

The lights started flickering around 10:25 pm. At first I thought it was just a bulb about to blow in my mother's bedroom, but then I noticed that the living room lights were sputtering as well. I called downstairs, to the doorman, and we both theorized that it might be the weather — it's been very windy the past few days.

But then one of the other building residents was talking in the background and the doorman said that they had figured it out — it was a transformer, and he'd call me back. A few moments later there was a muffled boom and then total blackness.

It's odd how quiet everything becomes when there is no light. No hum of electricity or machines. How used to it, to the white noise of electricity, we have become. Although I know that this will get fixed, I can't help but have an eerie feeling, as if I have suddenly found myself in the middle of a Stephen King short story — or maybe a novella. I'm reminded of another story, by Ray Bradbury, from The Illustrated Man (I think)*, when the machines take over. My iPhone is only half charged ...

My first instinct was to grab a flashlight and go investigate. I've seen enough horror movies to know that's not such a hot idea. Besides, it 's cold out — we're experiencing a cold snap here in Florida — and I don't fancy walking down four flights of stairs just to hear what I already know — the building's dark.

But until when? At least this happened late enough that we should all sleep through most of the blackout. The kid was already in bed. I was more concerned about my mom, who lately wants to sleep with a light on, but I gave her one of the bigger flashlights to brighten her room. Hopefully the lights will be restored before the batteries wear out.

So here I am typing, not sleepy, and thinking about the dark. There's a big bright full moon outside tonight. It's brighter out there, in the cold, than in here.


Addendum: It was a transformer, and the buildings power wasn't restored until 12:30 p.m. the next day. The kid had to spend a cold spring break afternoon amusing herself without electronics, just like Little House on the Prairie, and I had to throw out all the perishables in the fridge.

* Actually I was thinking of "There Will Come Soft Rains" from The Martian Chronicles

my life in libraries

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I come from a family of bibliophiles (and anglophiles, and Italophiles, but those are different posts.) We love books. We have tons of books. Books are not just things that you read and read again, but they are possessions, identity. Books are passed down from generation to generation. They tell things about us, who we are or were. From the sublime (complete editions of Shakespeare, gorgeous art catalogs) to the ridiculous—well, actually I don't actually consider any of these books ridiculous, but maybe more pop culture inspired—The Monty Python Bok, old Agatha Christie and Ray Bradbury paperbacks, children's books of my brother's and mine.

I have books of poetry and astronomy and American history that belonged to my dad—all enthusiasms of my his. He was a perpetual student. When I was just a child, he immersed himself, at one time or another, in the works of Virginia Woolf, and the life of George Washington and Thomas Jefferson, to name just a few. The rest of the family did as well, as he passed on interesting factoids from his reading along the way. Dad also had an impressive amount of books passed down from his father, primarily on chemistry and biology, but if they couldn't fill in the gaps of his current enthusiasm, his interests were indulged by visits to the local library. And I always was eager to go along. As Dad scoured shelves for what interested him, I did too, bringing home a stack of books on Greek mythology, or embroidery, or the complete Batman comics.

The other library-related wonder of my childhood was the bookmobile. It used to come to our neighborhood every two weeks and we would run with our stack of books, ready to replace them with new ones. It was amazing how much they could pack into that mobile library. I think I read the entire series of Nancy Drew books, as well as Little Women, Little Men and Jo's Boys thanks to the bookmobile. It was heartbreaking when we heard  that they weren't going to do it anymore. Budget cuts, I'm sure, but kids don't understand budget cuts. At least Dad was always willing to drive us to the library, which was quite a few towns away.

For a while, post-college, I lost my going to the library habit. If there was a topic or author I was interested in, I would just buy the book, usually at my favorite buy-or-trade used book store. I think it was good to support the small businessman, but the truth is that I have maybe, too many books. (I know it's a definite, not a maybe, but I'm in denial, as are my overstuffed bookshelves.) With the fabulous iBooks app on my iPad, I have also lately been able to download (both free and paid-for) books at the touch of a finger. At least only my virtual bookshelves are expanding.

I even work for a library, and constantly highlight its collections in my daily work, but didn't really use it personally, unless I had some family/genealogical research to do. A wasted opportunity, I know.


But last weekend I got a wild hare to check out the local library. And what a library! Four floors, fairly new, and chock full of books, movies, magazines—you name it. The children's floor is amazing. It's got all the right, fun things that of course the kids flock to first—a small room with a dvd-based-on-a-book playing, computers, fun and cozy lounging areas, fun decorations. I want to hang out there all day myself. But it also has a fabulous selection of books—from picture books to young readers to history, local and world—as well as all the classics and young adult titles. I like that it mixes in some of the popular young adult series titles, like the Percy Jackson and Harry Potter books, even if there is a larger teen-devoted section on another floor. Someone was really thinking about bridging the age gaps, in both directions, when they set things up.

 Playing a game on the computer
Between my mother, daughter, and myself we could have walked out with stacks and stacks of books, but we kept it fairly simple—five books to start. I mean, we can go back any time. And I know we will.

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