Traveling Softly One Winter's Night: Part 2
November 3rd 2006 01:00
The Italo Calvino / William Weaver text (If On A Winter's Night A Traveler):
Well, what are you waiting for? Stretch your legs, go ahead and put your feet on a cushion, on two cushions, on the arms of the sofa, on the wings of the chair, on the coffee table, on the desk, on the piano, on the globe. Take your shoes off first. If you want to, put your feet up; if not, put them back. Now don't stand there with your shoes in one hand and the book in the other.
Adjust the light so you won't strain your eyes. Do it now, because once you're absorbed in reading there will be no budging you. Make sure the page isn't in shadow, a clotting of black letters on a gray background, uniform as a pack of mice; but be careful that the light cast on it isn't too strong, doesn't glare on the cruel white of the paper, gnawing at the shadows of the letters as in a southern noonday. Try to foresee now everything that might make you interrupt your reading. Cigarettes within reach, if you smoke, and the ashtray. Anything else? Do you have to pee? All right, you know best.
It's not that you're expecting anything in particular from this particular book. You're the sort of person who, on principle, no longer expects anything of anything. There are plenty, younger than you or less young, who live in the expectation of extraordinary experiences: from books, from people, from journeys, from events, from what tomorrow has in store. But not you. You know that the best you can expect is to avoid the worst. This is the conclusion you have reached, in your personal life and also in general matters, even international affairs. What about books? Well, precisely because you have denied it in every other field, you believe you may still grant yourself legitimately this youthful pleasure of expectation in a carefully circumscribed area like the field of books, where you can be lucky or unlucky, but the risk of disappointment isn't serious.
So, then, you noticed in a newspaper that If On A Winter's Night A Traveler had appeared, the new book by Italo Clavino, who hadn't published for several years. You went into the bookshop and bought the volume. Good for you.
Epiphanie Bloom's version:
What keeps you in a state of indecision? Your surroundings are waiting to be made creative use of, so sink into your favourite position, or find a new one, rearranging your body as you expect to rearrange your mind. The link between the physical and mental only prompts you to investigate your space further. Shall you remove your shoes?
Before you're ready to engross yourself in my realms of (meta)fiction you would be doing yourself a big favour in making sure you have the light on just right. Too dim and the clotting of black letters on a gray background will appear as uniform as a pack of mice; too bright and the harsh white of the page will gnaw at the shadows of the page as in a southern Italian noonday. Try to foresee now everything you might interrupt your reading with- are your cigarettes within easy reach? An ashtray? Have you gone to the toilet?
What sort of reading experience are you after, dear reader? I know many a colleague who no longer expects to extrapolate anything in particular from the act of reading, no longer expecting to come across anything really remarkable in our modern world. They have given up on the idea of the extraordinary- not in books or people, from travel or special events, and you may perhaps be influenced by this crowd. Is avoiding the worst really the best you can do? Forgive me, I'm going to assume that some elements of this philosophy inform your point of view, being quite jaded myself. The good news is this- even though you no longer overwhelmingly expect to be overwhelmed, there is still a special place for you in the world of publications, a carefully circumscribed area in which the risk of disappointment has been reduced, and some of that innocent pleasure of expectation is still forthcoming, almost despite your better knowledge. Admit it, you're an idealist.
So you were made conscious of the presence of this book, perhaps through a newspaper, and you're curious to see how Epiphanie Bloom handles the distinct challenges of creating a second generation English edition of the deceased Italian author Italo Calvino. You made your way into a bookshop of your choice and singled out this particular copy. May I congratulate you on your purchase.
Well, what are you waiting for? Stretch your legs, go ahead and put your feet on a cushion, on two cushions, on the arms of the sofa, on the wings of the chair, on the coffee table, on the desk, on the piano, on the globe. Take your shoes off first. If you want to, put your feet up; if not, put them back. Now don't stand there with your shoes in one hand and the book in the other.
Adjust the light so you won't strain your eyes. Do it now, because once you're absorbed in reading there will be no budging you. Make sure the page isn't in shadow, a clotting of black letters on a gray background, uniform as a pack of mice; but be careful that the light cast on it isn't too strong, doesn't glare on the cruel white of the paper, gnawing at the shadows of the letters as in a southern noonday. Try to foresee now everything that might make you interrupt your reading. Cigarettes within reach, if you smoke, and the ashtray. Anything else? Do you have to pee? All right, you know best.
Epiphanie Bloom's version:
What keeps you in a state of indecision? Your surroundings are waiting to be made creative use of, so sink into your favourite position, or find a new one, rearranging your body as you expect to rearrange your mind. The link between the physical and mental only prompts you to investigate your space further. Shall you remove your shoes?
Before you're ready to engross yourself in my realms of (meta)fiction you would be doing yourself a big favour in making sure you have the light on just right. Too dim and the clotting of black letters on a gray background will appear as uniform as a pack of mice; too bright and the harsh white of the page will gnaw at the shadows of the page as in a southern Italian noonday. Try to foresee now everything you might interrupt your reading with- are your cigarettes within easy reach? An ashtray? Have you gone to the toilet?
What sort of reading experience are you after, dear reader? I know many a colleague who no longer expects to extrapolate anything in particular from the act of reading, no longer expecting to come across anything really remarkable in our modern world. They have given up on the idea of the extraordinary- not in books or people, from travel or special events, and you may perhaps be influenced by this crowd. Is avoiding the worst really the best you can do? Forgive me, I'm going to assume that some elements of this philosophy inform your point of view, being quite jaded myself. The good news is this- even though you no longer overwhelmingly expect to be overwhelmed, there is still a special place for you in the world of publications, a carefully circumscribed area in which the risk of disappointment has been reduced, and some of that innocent pleasure of expectation is still forthcoming, almost despite your better knowledge. Admit it, you're an idealist.
So you were made conscious of the presence of this book, perhaps through a newspaper, and you're curious to see how Epiphanie Bloom handles the distinct challenges of creating a second generation English edition of the deceased Italian author Italo Calvino. You made your way into a bookshop of your choice and singled out this particular copy. May I congratulate you on your purchase.
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