Hi All Readers :)

first: thanks to Leslie (Lazen64) for the hospitality!

then, some references of book we read and talked about yesterday evening:

Mary G. (Moe31):
The story I read last night was by David Sedaris. His books and short stories are always a cure to the doldrums. He has an uncanny ability to draw from the ridiculous in life and people!
I will get my audiobooks sent over and you can hear him speak and do impressions. Laughter is a great workout for the belly! Also, check out www.newyorker.com and search Sedaris. There are approximately 15 funny stories by Sedaris on the website.

Nathalie (Wonton):
The Night Watch, by Sarah Waters
A Suitable Boy, by Vikram Seth
(I found out that at 1349 pages, 1488 pages softcover and 591,552 words, the book is the longest novel ever published in a single volume in the English language)

Leslie read
"Short Zen" ... a "maybe" story :)

Chandra (Chandra):
the name of the book I was mentioning last night is "The Last Summer of Reason" by Tahar Djaout. Really, just incredibly beautiful.

plus, from the previous meeting, forgotten in my glasses of wine - Mary G you are not the only one to be kept away from it :)) -
Dina (Dina):
The book I talked about is Suite Francaise by Irene Nemirovksy. Here's a link to the review in the NY Times that also provides background on the author's life (the most striking aspect probably being that she was able to fictionalize the events of WWII
and incorporate them in her work within months after they happened).
http://www.nytimes.com/2006/04/09/books/review/09gray.html?ex=1183867200&en=af878bfd3ec7a282&ei=5070

I (giglio6973) read two quotes from "Like a novel" by Daniel Pennac (Comme un Roman)

Yes, stealing one hour to read every day.
But taking it out from which commitments?
From friends? From TV? From transfers? From family evenings? From homework?
Where do I find the time to read?
Serious trouble.
Which does not exist.
Right in the moment I set to myself the problem of time to read, it means that what is missing is the wish. Because, indeed, no one has ever the time to read. Children don’t have it, teenagers don’t, grow-ups don’t. Life is a perpetual obstacle to reading.
“Reading? I’d really like it, but the job, the kids, the house, I don’t have any time left …”
“How I envy you, you have time to read!”
And what about this woman? She works, she does the shopping, she takes care of children, she drives the car, she loves three men, she goes to the dentist, she relocates next week, why does she find time to read? And why this chaste single (that does not do anything) does not read?
The time to read is always stolen. (Like the time to write, besides, or the time to love).
Stolen from what?
Let’s say, from the duty of living.
Maybe this is the reason why the tube – wise symbol of this duty – ends up with being the biggest library of the world.
The time to read, like the time to love, widens the time to live.
If we should think about love, considering all our commitments, who ever will risk loving? Who does have the time to be in love? But, did you ever see a lover not having the time to love?
I’ve never had the time to read, but nothing ever prevented me from finishing a novel I liked.
Reading has nothing to do with the organization of social time. Reading is, like loving, a way of being.
The problem is not knowing if I have or if I don’t have time to read (time which besides no one will give me); the problem is if I give myself the joy of being a reader or not.


10th Reader’s Right
The right to say nothing.
Man builds houses because is alive but writes books because he knows he’s mortal. He lives in group because he’s social but he reads because he knows he’s alone. Reading is for him a company which does not take the place of any other company, but at the same time which is not replaceable but any other company. It does not give him any definitive explanation about his destiny, but it weaves together a close net of connivances between life and him. Very small, secret connivances which talk about the paradoxical happiness of living, while, at the same time, they enlighten the tragic absurdity of life. Then our reasons to read are strange the same way our reasons to live are strange. And no one is allowed to ask us about the reasons of this intimacy.

thanks to everyone and see you next time :)

ciao

Davide

giglio6973Jul 19, 2007 @ 16:29