Marginalia
Infidelity isn’t an easy subject to write about. When the real thing happens to you –and not that inbred, chair-flinging fool on Jerry Springer, the consequences can be earth-shattering. You do all the crazy, clichéd things: tell your friends (those who you ditched after things got serious) that you “can’t believe this is happening,” that “you’re better off,” that “[…] never again [!]” Driving alone in your car (you’re now destined to be alone) you ask the steering wheel “what was going through their head?” But the steering wheel has no idea, and neither does your ex-partner. Like most phenomena that attend a guilty shrug, the only explanation is that it...well, it just happened.
This leads me to a reluctant confession: during some of the more questionable times in my otherwise virtuous life, I have been a little less than faithful, a little south of the monogamous border. Let’s say, I’ve dabbled, played the game, seen what’s out there –and I’m not proud of this. But before you begin judge, hear me out: just because I cannot stay true to just one book, read it to the end, without interruption or shameless abandonment, does not make me any less of a reader than you, reader.
I start with all the right intentions. I go to the bookstore with just enough money for one book. After some flirtatious perusing, some cradling and fondling –Can I help you find anything today?—I return all but one to the shelves –No, thank you. Found what I was looking for—and make my way hurriedly to the register. Even Odysseus had to tie himself to a mast. Not sure what he paid, but mine cost only $15.
Later, however, after reaching the twentieth or so page of my new book, I find myself hovering over a word for too long. This is how it begins. My eyes may be starring at the page, dutifully, behaving like good boy scouts, but my mind is elsewhere, frisky and anxious. Then it catches my eye from across the room –a book I started but never finished, bought but never read—and its pages are whispering. I look away ashamed and continue my hovering. This time, I tell myself, will be different.
Hours later, chapters later, I return to the first book racked with guilt. Books are spread and spent on my floor, resembling some kind of crime scene, as I reread the last sentence, softly and tenderly, with promise of change. But it’s no use. I’m distracted again. I’m thinking of those descriptive lines, those delicate metaphors. Before I know it, I’m walking across the room again, bookmarks are falling to the floor, and I’m nose deep in another book. I look to the mirror on the opposite wall and can hardly believe what I see.
Last time it happened, I thought I could handle it. And for I while I could. Organization was key: The Rise and Fall of the Roman Empire on Monday; Roth on Tuesday and Wednesday mornings; Thursdays free (a me-day); Friday some Mitchell. (These are generalizations, of course.) But by Saturday I started mixing up protagonists’ names, plots were overlapping, print stains on my hands, unfamiliar paper smells. Just like the week before, I was losing it.
I’m not sure what I actually get out of reading since it’s such a rare ceremony that I finish a book (maybe if I finished that book on Psychoanalysis, I could relate this to a fear of death.) Sometimes, it seems I spend more time in bookstores buying books, or contemplating their purchase, than actually sitting down and reading them. I buy more than I consume. But I’m learning to accept and understand this as my inventory grows. Where books were once my bag of chips before dinner, my empty carbs, they are now a delectable buffet that never ends. They are like wine. Certain words or ways with words may go out of fashion, but ink will never spoil. I’ll break them out at the right time, for the right occasion –maybe even finish them if I’m in the mood. And although I won’t do this at the rate in which they migrate to my shelves, at least I know, despite my textual trysts and promiscuous cross-referencing, that I’ll never be alone.
This leads me to a reluctant confession: during some of the more questionable times in my otherwise virtuous life, I have been a little less than faithful, a little south of the monogamous border. Let’s say, I’ve dabbled, played the game, seen what’s out there –and I’m not proud of this. But before you begin judge, hear me out: just because I cannot stay true to just one book, read it to the end, without interruption or shameless abandonment, does not make me any less of a reader than you, reader.
I start with all the right intentions. I go to the bookstore with just enough money for one book. After some flirtatious perusing, some cradling and fondling –Can I help you find anything today?—I return all but one to the shelves –No, thank you. Found what I was looking for—and make my way hurriedly to the register. Even Odysseus had to tie himself to a mast. Not sure what he paid, but mine cost only $15.
Later, however, after reaching the twentieth or so page of my new book, I find myself hovering over a word for too long. This is how it begins. My eyes may be starring at the page, dutifully, behaving like good boy scouts, but my mind is elsewhere, frisky and anxious. Then it catches my eye from across the room –a book I started but never finished, bought but never read—and its pages are whispering. I look away ashamed and continue my hovering. This time, I tell myself, will be different.
Hours later, chapters later, I return to the first book racked with guilt. Books are spread and spent on my floor, resembling some kind of crime scene, as I reread the last sentence, softly and tenderly, with promise of change. But it’s no use. I’m distracted again. I’m thinking of those descriptive lines, those delicate metaphors. Before I know it, I’m walking across the room again, bookmarks are falling to the floor, and I’m nose deep in another book. I look to the mirror on the opposite wall and can hardly believe what I see.
Last time it happened, I thought I could handle it. And for I while I could. Organization was key: The Rise and Fall of the Roman Empire on Monday; Roth on Tuesday and Wednesday mornings; Thursdays free (a me-day); Friday some Mitchell. (These are generalizations, of course.) But by Saturday I started mixing up protagonists’ names, plots were overlapping, print stains on my hands, unfamiliar paper smells. Just like the week before, I was losing it.
I’m not sure what I actually get out of reading since it’s such a rare ceremony that I finish a book (maybe if I finished that book on Psychoanalysis, I could relate this to a fear of death.) Sometimes, it seems I spend more time in bookstores buying books, or contemplating their purchase, than actually sitting down and reading them. I buy more than I consume. But I’m learning to accept and understand this as my inventory grows. Where books were once my bag of chips before dinner, my empty carbs, they are now a delectable buffet that never ends. They are like wine. Certain words or ways with words may go out of fashion, but ink will never spoil. I’ll break them out at the right time, for the right occasion –maybe even finish them if I’m in the mood. And although I won’t do this at the rate in which they migrate to my shelves, at least I know, despite my textual trysts and promiscuous cross-referencing, that I’ll never be alone.
posted by This is borrowed time at 7:42 AM
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