I've been reading the New Yorker since 1968. Somebody gave me a whole pile of old issues. I start reading and I've been hooked my entire life. As a teenager, mostly stuck at my parent's suburban Sacramento home, I used to lay out on a chaise lounge in the back yard with the sprinkler going. I found that I could just read a New Yorker issue just about the time it disintegrated from the water. A useful closed system.
I'm reading July 30, 2012. Extremely recent for me. Varying it with reading for my upcoming class which looks pretty hard, currently reading Stefan Zweig novella.
Reading through a long article about Bruce Springsteen. Turned the page and saw this sketchbook by Benoit Van Innis (p 53).
Is this possibly my dream life? Does it make sense for a fully clothing man to be floating in his pool reading books. If he wasn't fully clothed, it could make sense. Clearly he's as rich as he can be, with the large house and all the open land. And, he's spending his earned (or unearned) leisure reading books. So much wealth and so many books.
I kind of feel like I'm emulating this (without the pool and the suit). In a way, it doesn't make sense to try to read so many books. But, before adulthood intervened, that's what I wanted to do. I remember, as a child, my mother confronting me, hugely frustrated, "Is that all you're going to do all summer, just read books?" Actually, that sounded like a great idea to me.
It's more of a choice of avocation rather than a talent or genius.
I worry about all of those books getting wet,
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