Bibliophilia, Part 2

Since I got all gushy about books, I may as well share with you what makes up my personal library. Well, not the really personal stuff. You understand.

Probably the largest category is computer books ... Programming in This or That, or The Whatsis Cookbook. These are the ones most in jeopardy when layoffs come. The information they hold is easier to locate via Google, and they're all obsolete by the time they get into print anyway. Still, they have a certain charm.

There's a gradual transition from the technical books through design (interface and graphic), art, illustration and cartooning. The illustrated ones are the most fun.  I mean, fiction is good for one, maybe two readings. But art books can be visited again and again, with new discoveries each time. Anyway, who's got time for fiction?

I have a long-standing, if occasionally dormant interest in what might best be called the "history of ideas," and consequently bought nearly every book with the word "idea" in the title. I was trying to capture various significant ideas in verse form for another blog, Ideas Great and Dumb, the latter part of which may be self-descriptive.

I also have a large concentration of what are best described as "humor" books.  These range from classics by Mark Twain or P. G. Wodehouse to more recent stuff.  I have an autographed set of (nearly) complete works of Dave Barry.  Unfortunately, they were only autographed by previous owners.

Apart from a smattering of books on photography and stereo-photography, and some outliers on music, theater, etc., the largest remaining constituent is made up of books of, by and for graphic novels, or comics. Since I can't write well enough to be a writer, nor draw well enough to be an artist, I always thought graphic novels might be an ideal medium of expression for me. Unfortunately, however, it turns out you need to be both a great writer and a great artist to carry that off.

Oh, well. I guess I'm a reader.

Actually, not even that, or I would have gotten through more of these. I'll have to settle for being a great book buyer.

The Classics

I think it's great that Amazon has a Kindle app for iPhones and Android phones.  I can carry a hundred books in my pocket, and read them whenever I'm unavoidably detained, such as at the doctor's office, dentist's office, optometrist's office, barbershop, etc.  You get the idea.

Of course, I rarely get more than a few pages into one of the classics (They're free!), so I usually wind up starting over again for each new appointment.   I've read the first few pages of Ulysses dozens of times, and I still haven't made it to Lilliput despite countless embarkations.

The drawback to this is that catchphrases get stuck in your head like unwanted melodies, and then pop out at the most inopportune times.  More than once I've had this exchange:

 - Peter?
 - Call me Ishmael.

I have an odd tendency to refer to people as "you fearful Jesuit," with no regard whatsoever to their religious affiliations.

Shakespeare is plentiful in the land of free lit, and is chock full of juicy, tenacious phrases.  So why do I keep falling back on "It is a tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury and signifying nothing?"

And, of course, these linguistic baubles are most likely to pop out the moment I finally get in to see the doctor, dentist, optometrist, barber, etc.

 - How have you been?
 - It was the best of times, it was the worst of times ...
 - What seems to be the problem?
 - It feels like my gall bladder is divided into three parts.

I wouldn't mind this patina of literacy, but, like a Tourette sufferer, I have no control over when these utterances choose to interject themselves.  Drink me.

The Original Reality Show

Last night brought the single episode of the season for one of television's most enduring reality shows ... The Academy Awards.  Now in it's 83rd year, with an almost entirely new cast each season, this show somehow never fails to attract attention, despite the abundance of reality show rivals.  Is the Best Actor somehow more prestigious then the Iron Chef or the American Idol?  Does the Best Actress outshine the Biggest Loser or the pick of The Bachelor?

Fifty years ago, historian and all-around smart guy Daniel Boorstin wrote about pseudo-events in his 1961 book, The Image.  Pseudo-events are events arranged to give the impression of being news.  The Oscars ceremony is probably the grand-daddy of these, with lavish sets, elegant couture, film clips and other references to the art actually being honored (lest we forget), all staged to inflate the importance of movies and the movie industry.

What about books?  Maybe such a ceremony is what's needed to raise the profile of literature, and to elevate books to the status of entertainment, instead of mere art.  Wouldn't that be something?

After pausing on the red carpet to gush to the media about their tweed jackets with elbow patches, and their jean/sweatshirt ensembles, the year's top authors, editors and publishers file into the Library of Congress for their big night.  Flashes sparkle as Margaret Atwood, Ian Frasier, Patti Smith, Salman Rushdie and many others saunter into the hall.

Dazzling in their sweats and bathrobe, co-hosts Dave Eggers and Barbara Kingsolver exchange witty banter while introducing the succession of award presenters.  Legend Philip Roth is escorted onto the stage to present the award for Best Using of Gerunds (and to flirt shamelessly with Kingsolver, whom he repeatedly addresses as Anne Frank.)

Tension mounts as the posthumous achievement award goes to Stieg Larsson.  Finally, no less a figure than J. K. Rowling, the Steven Spielberg of literature, takes the stage to award the prize for Best Work of Fiction to ... H.R. 2: Repealing the Job-Killing Health Care Law Act.