Wednesday, August 3, 2011
I've almost finished reading Sartre's 'The Age of Reason'. This has been a sporadic venture of mine, as reading books always is for me - but I've made a pact with myself that I will break on through to the other side and finish all these damn books I insist on beginning. I have actually enjoyed this one, too. It's a fantastic copy I bought at an Op Shop, an original Penguin published in 1962. It was in really good condition when I found it, the original price in pounds on the front and everything but in the past few weeks it's been traveling around with me it's seen more hardship than it had in the fifty odd years prior. I've spilt wax on the cover, crushed the thing down the very bottom depths of my bag (A scary place) and spilt various juices from my lunches on it. Luckily the wax that I peeled off the front cover after it dried left a residue that had made it kind of waterproof, this book is evolving.
Anyway as thrilling as this all is I was getting to a point and that is that this book has been like a real companion to me. I've whipped it out in lots of places and it's been a real comfort to delve into this other world right where I left off. The cool thing about books is that you're in charge of the frame of time in them. When you stop reading it doesn't keep playing out without you witnessing it. It's sort of the same with art except it's more user friendly - it's like you can't carry 'Les Demoiselles d'Avignon' with you on the train to whip out and have a look at to pass the time.
I used to make bookmarks when I was younger with tassels and stickers and coloured cardboard. What I would give for one of those right now - I'm doing the old 'bending the corner' of the page I'm up to - sacrilegious, I know - I really hate people who do that and I'm one of them. Oh boy.