Escape
but
remember;
embrace
life’s
ambiguities.

(Inspired by Not Quite What I Was Planning: Six-Word Memoirs by Writers Famous and Obscure.)

On my former blog, I wrote about Art Garfunkel’s awesome reading list, which chronicles the books he’s read since 1968. Nick Paumgarten’s written a lovely piece in The New Yorker about Garfunkel’s literary habits; it’s a nice juxtaposition to Caleb Crain’s “Twilight of the Books,” an essay that examines reading habits in America and the possible repercussions of our increasingly digital lives.

 

 The International Herald Tribune offers a guide to New York’s libraries in “A Bookworm’s Holiday.” Unsurprisingly, the Rego Park branch of the Queens Library (which, by the way, is the No. 1 library system in the U.S. by circulation) was not highlighted; I go there every weekend, and though I appreciate the teeming hordes of library patrons, it can be quite annoying to fight with the unwashed masses (once, a woman even forcibly pushed me while I was browsing the CDs and loudly accused me — wrongly, I might add — of flatulating with abandon).

Oregon ceases to exist. Back to Met Supermarket and Key Food and our small impersonal bathroom, which doesn’t matter to the husband since he’s again working 16-hour days.

On the upside, I got some new books from the library: Beethoven Was One-Sixteenth Black (Nadine Gordimer), What is the What (Dave Eggers), and The Abstinence Teacher (Tom Perrotta). Until the office reopens, I plan on painting, reading in the bathtub, and consuming mass quantities of food, like my patented sweet sweet potatoes (butter, brown sugar, cinnamon, and mashed yams). Maybe I’ll come up with something else to do, or maybe I’ll just enjoy my bit of deserved sloth.