the Village Knittiot

One of my usual gripes is the seeming lack of time to do, see, read, and experience all the things that I want to in the time I have been allotted in this life. I am sure that this persistent time pressure I feel is only exacerbated by the fact that I have a job I dislike and find uninspiring, and yet am required to be at 8.5 hours 5 days each week. On my less than Zen-like days, where perspective is in short supply, this feels like a complete waste of my time.

Of course, as I am being constantly reminded, it’s the journey that is the thing. So I am working at appreciating where I am right now and getting what I can out of each day — even if I have to pry it out with the metaphysical equivalent of scary dental tools. There is no wasted time unless I waste the time. Right?

So, this time-pressured, results-oriented, perfectionist, type-A personality gal that runs one half of my life (and you do recognize this is only one half of my personality, right?) doesn’t usually allow herself the luxury of rereading books, even the really great ones that she likes to rave and rave and rave about. Because usually she is racing us onto other books because there are so many of them and, really, we only have so many years left of reading and that’s what? 30 books a year? Maybe 40? Yes, 40 if I push myself. And what if I have a bad year and there are only like 10 or 12 books that year? Not likely. But really, there are so many and someday I’m going to be dead and then what? So certainly there isn’t time for things like rereading good books.

Clearly there is a flaw in her logic, but like the good tour guide she is, she doesn’t have time to see that flaw because there is a schedule and looking at flaws isn’t on the schedule, see? So let’s just move along.

Isn’t she annoying?

So I’m rebelling. Ms. Goody-two-shoes doesn’t get to run the show all the time. I’m rereading a book.

I first read it a couple of years ago, and it was one of those books that was sometimes so frustrating that I wanted to throw it against the wall or bury it in the garden under some lovely yellow mums. But it was my choice for a book discussion group, and I was damn well going to finish it. When I was done, I felt gratified in the way that running a marathon feels gratifying. You are drained and replenished and amazed with yourself and exhausted all at the same time. That book was called The Unconsoled, and it was written by Kazuo Ishiguro.

It was the first book he had written after The Remains of the Day, and the critics hated it. I didn’t know that until after I was done reading it, but suffice it to say, it was not a well received book. I think they are nuts, but I also think they were not expecting this from him, and it completely fucked with their ability to read the book. They thought they had him figured out and nothing pisses critics off more than being told their assumptions are wrong. But they were. This is not to say the book wasn’t frustrating, which is not to say the book wasn’t brilliant, because it was all of the above. I think it is one of those books that people read, and even if they want to set it down and never pick it up again they don’t, and upon finishing, they close the cover announce they hated it and then open it up immediately and need to read it again.

Rereading it (oh, the luxury!), has been far less frustrating and I am finding my ability to step into its dream-like quality as easy as walking to the mailbox at the end of my block. I am not fighting the narration this time or trying to make it fit into some concept that is more akin to the way my mind thinks it should work. I am letting myself flow with the story, and it is fascinating. Yesterday at lunch, I couldn’t knit because I had to read.

I haven’t stopped thinking about this book since I read it two (or was it three now?) years ago. And just last month he released a new book, which I requested from my local library and am patiently waiting for, called Never Let Me Go. I read an excellent article on Ishiguro over at the Guardian, in which he touches briefly on the popularity of Remains of the Day and this realization he had that much of his audience, which grew considerably with that book, weren’t probably going to like the books he knew he wanted to write in the future. He was right. And oh how glad I am of that.

Even type-A girl couldn’t argue with me that it wasn’t worth rereading The Unconsoled, and I think she’s accepted that fact that there is going to be a whole lot more re-reading going on in the future.

This entry was posted on Wednesday, April 6th, 2005 at 9:27 am and is filed under this Reading Life. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.