Fraters Libertas

Reading Nothin' But The Handwriting on the Wall

My good friend and valued colleague King Banaian has decreed I respond to an informal survey of reading habits. He claims I'm an enigma when it comes to my literary influences, because he knows less of what I read that the rest of the NARN. I interpret that as meaning he's not all that sure that I can read at all. Given some of my NARN commentaries he's been subjected to, I understand his point of view.

For the record, read I can. Books, however, not so much. Instead, I'm an obsessive newspaper and magazine reader. And a Book TV watcher on CSPAN, which is a terrific way to get the gist of dozens of books a month, without ever having to leave the pale blue gaze of our dark master.

What time I did have to read, well, the advent of blogs pretty much took care of that. Really, who among us in the blogosphere has time to read Paradise Lost when we need to check Pair O' Dice blog six times a day for any breaking updates? Not me, friend.

Now, the truth King seeks:

Total number of books owned, ever: Not counting text books, which I was compelled to buy under extreme duress, I'd say about 25 to 30.

Glancing at my book shelf now, I'm forced to admit, most of them suck. One of the worst, Rebel Baseball: The Summer the Game Was Returned to the Fans. It's the alleged first hand account of the St. Paul Saints first season back in 1993. A terrific subject, miserably executed by what reads like a first time author without much knowledge of baseball or of tailgating bacchanalia, which were the twin foundations of that glorious summer at Midway Stadium. The wisdom of markets reveals itself when noting one can go to Amazon and purchase this book (which initially retailed for $22) for the rock bottom price of ... three cents. And it's still over priced.

Last Book I Bought: Can't remember. But I do remember the last book I got for FREE. The brilliant Reagan's Revolution, by Craig Shirley. Thanks to an enterprising and blog savvy publicist, the book was sent to me, as a learned opinion leader. A few weeks later we booked Craig Shirley on NARN and had a terrific discussion. And that book still sits on my nightstand. And by golly, I vow to read it by, hopefully the end of the year.

Last Book I Read: See above.

Five Books that Mean a Lot to Me:

The Revenge of Conscience, by J. Budzisweski. Not a book, but a magazine article, a JB Doubtless recommendation from years ago. As I mentioned, I've read my weight in magazine articles and I'd be remiss if I didn't include an example of at least one of them in this list.

The Power Broker, by Robert Caro. In college I was assigned to read this monster about New York City master builder Robert Moses in no less than three different classes. Of course, I really didn't READ it until years after college (and I found it to be absolutely brilliant). But I skimmed it enough the first time to skate through the subsequent two classes without doing any extra work at all. As such, this may be the most meaningful book I've
ever owned in my life.

The Civil War: A Narrative. Volumes I, I, and III by Shelby Foote. Since it's three books, three huge books (each running in the neighborhood of 1,000 pages), I'm counting them all separately.

Stunning, comprehensive history of the defining event of American history. Not from the perspective of a trained historian, but from a story teller and novelist. Foote documents dozens of political and diplomatic episodes, hundreds of battles, thousands of characters, all in captivating, fluid prose.

As I started to get into Volume I and discovered how wonderful it was, I realized I wanted to read it for pure enjoyment and not for knowledge alone. So I made a point of reading every single word and understanding every sentence. And if I didn't quite grasp the meaning or reference, I'd go back and read the sentence again.

And the writing was so beautiful, the quotes and speeches from the era were so articulate and earnest and well composed, all the words fit so well together, I would often pause, reread, then read them a third time aloud. I liked the sound of them so much, I began to even affect the accent of the speaker. Languid southern drawls for the likes of Robert E. Lee or Stonewall Jackson (model, Foghorn Leghorn). High and screechy gravitas from Honest Abe. (Everyone assumes Lincoln sounds like James Earl Jones, but according to prestigious Doctor Zebra's Medical History of Abraham Lincoln, it was a "penetrating and far-reaching voice that could be heard over great distances. It was high-pitched and tended to become even more shrill when he became excited. At times, it was even unpleasant." So, as a model, I used Chad the Elder's radio voice).

Pretty soon, merely mouthing the words wasn't enough. I'd look around the house for period attire. My general lack of 19th century garb forced me to improvise a bit. (Artist conception of what that looked like here).

Sometimes I would even stand and simulate the poses I thought these guys would strike as they delivered their words. (For example, delivering the surrender statement of Fort Sumter, while moonwalking across the kitchen). By the time I was up to staging the Second Battle of Bull Run in my bathroom, I knew I had taken things a bit too far.

As I read and read at my deliberate pace and the weeks and months began to fly by, I wasn't sure I was ever going to finish these books. About two and half years in, it dawned on me that it might take me longer to read the history than it took to actually fight the damn war. To avoid responsibility for this scathing indictment on the abilities of modern man, I kicked it into high gear and finished it a few months shy of four full years.

I found the ending of this literate journey very moving, very emotional. Those weighty tomes were with me through all the big benchmarks of my life during that period. The clearing up of my teen age acne, the pilot episode of Herman's Head on Fox, my first prostate exam. Good times.

These thoughts were with me, as I read Shelby Foote's closing words in Volume III, and shed a single, manly tear:

So, anyhow, "Farewel my book and my devicion," my rock and my companion through two decades. At the outset of this Gibbon span, plunk in what I hope will be the middle of my writing life, I was two yeas younger than Grant at Belmont, while at the end I was four months older than Lincoln at his assassination. By way of possible extenuation, in response to claims that it took me five times longer to write the war than the participants took to fight it, I would point out that there were a good many more of them than there was of me. However that may be, the conflict is behind me now, as it is for you and it was a hundred-odd years ago for them.

After the ordeal of reading this post, I'm sure many of you feel the same way right now. And in that poignant, deeply meaningful spirit, I leave you with this.