Nebulas

It is a bright award, a tower of lucite with a galaxy suspended in the upper half and a gold plaque on the lower with a name a title and a year.  A Nebula Award.  I’ve held two of them in my hands and I’d like to have one of my own.

Alas, it is likely not to be.  I fly too far below the radar of those who vote on such things.

Be that as it may, as a member of SFWA, I always vote.  I do try to vote for the best piece of work on the ballot and it’s always gratifying when it turns out that I’ve read enough stories and books to have somewhat of an informed opinion.  I just now finished voting and I feel righteous.  A good friend of mine has something on the ballot and I hope she wins, I do.  The story in question is stunningly brilliant, of course—my friends tend to be better than I am and I happen to think I’m pretty good, which means they’re fucking brilliant.  And that always makes even nicer, to be able to vote for quality and sentimental reasons.

I’d like to win a Hugo Award, too, but that seems even less likely, as one must sell enough copies of one’s book to those who nominate and vote on those, and I fly even farther below their radar.  I will say this—while occasionally some titles of dubious merit have landed on the shortlists of both awards, I’ve rarely found a book or story nominated for either that was a complete waste of time.  Between them they make good recommended reading lists.

So here is a hope for good fortune to my friend.  May she get the lucite tower and the bright galaxy.  She’s earned it.

(psst!  That’s Kelley Eskridge, a novella called  Dangerous Space.  Treat yourself, go read it.)

Catcher In The Rye

I just completed an essay for a newsletter about books we never read, but it is assumed, because we are Readers, we have.  Catcher In The Rye is such a book for me.  Never read it.  Know a lot about it, through some kind of osmosis, rubbing up against people who have read it.  You can glean a lot that way.

I made the statement in the essay that I probably don’t even own a copy.  I just checked.  I do.  It’s not actually mine, the name of the person who apparently loaned it to me is stamped inside the front cover.  But there it is, on my shelf.  Accusing me.  “You never read me, but I won’t go away until you do!”

Some books, I think, are alive.  They find their way, by many avenues, into peoples’ hands.  Some of us never seem to have to purchase these books, they just show up.  They’re always there.  This is one of them.

Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance seems to be another.  We have never been without a copy in this house, though we have never bought one.  I haven’t read it.  Read in it, sure.  Open at random, do a few pages, close and reshelve.  I’ve got a few books like that.  But I never paid for a copy.  How did it get here?  And by “it” I mean the book itself, not just one singular copy.

We used to give books away.  We’d buy them for people and hand them out.  I did that for Time Enough For Love once, I bought ten copies and just passed them to friends.

What other books just seem to follow you around?  I suppose it depends on what kind of people you hang with.  I know people who have never bought The Lord of the Rings, but they have it, and have read it.  (Yes, I bought my copies, but there was one set of them passing among my friends at one time.  Wonder where that ended up?)

For years I had a tattered copy of To Kill A Mockingbird that arrived in my collection one day from where I do not know and stayed there.  I finally bought an anniversary edition hardcover of it and the paperback has subsequently disappeared.  Moved on, I suppose, to some other needy shelf.

When I say books live, this isn’t exactly what I have in mind, but it is kind of freaky.  I’ve never actually caught my books having relations and reproducing, but several years ago I discovered four full editions of The Foundation Trilogy.  

Occasionally, I know where these copies come from, but it is also true that many of them have just shown up, like unemployed people looking for work.  “Will Tell You A Good Story For a Warm Shelf for the Night.”  I’m looking at my shelves now and I see a copy of Lost Horizons that I did not buy (or borrow).  Likewise a copy of Dr. Zhivago.  That one baffles me.  Why would they pick my library in which to seek refuge?  Who passed the word to them that they’d be safe here?

Well, it’s true, I won’t turn them out.  Who knows, I may even read them.  Maybe not Catcher In The Rye, though.  I’m kind of holding out on that one.  It’s the kind of book everyone thinks you really must read, that I’ve got my back up about it.  Obviously, it thinks I should read it, but it slipped in here on the sly, probably in company with a few others (like the volume on Chinese Philosophy that I cannot imagine the origin of) and thinks it will taunt me into cracking it open.

We’ll see about that.

My Dog

Okay, this is too cute.  I need to do videos, but they might mean something only to me.  So what?

My dog…her name is Coffey.  About 35 lbs, the color of coffee beans except for the slightly spotted white on her chest, around her neck, her paws, and a streak like spilled milk on her face from forehead down to around her nose.  Marvelous ears.

Happy.

I’m not in a great mood these days, for a variety of reasons, and this morning I seemed stuck in a funk.  I have to go in to the Day Job earlier than usual and it’s too damn cold outside to either go to the gym (can’t wait for winter to be over) or walk Coffey.  I won’t freeze my tush off anymore just because my dog needs—or wants—a walk.  This has been the norm most of this winter.  Windchill ducks below 20, we’re not going.  She seems okay with it as long as we do something else.

I am writing this just after the something else.  Because she made me laugh out loud.

I went upstairs, to the bathroom, and something about it triggered her play response.  She sat outside the bathroom door, at attention, looking very expectant.  I came out and she ran into the living room and sat again.  She watches you when she’s in this state, looking for cues as toyour intention.  Which way will I move?  Toward her leash?  To the couch?  And she tries to sit very still while studying me.  But when I look directly at her, motionlessness ends.  Her tail starts wagging, brushing along the carpet, swish swish swish, and there is enough kinetic energy in it to get her entire butt shifting back and forth, which, when I smile, increases, till she’s pivoting at a point almost midway up her spine.

I laugh.

She grabs her rope.

The Rope is a thick white and green length of about three feet, knotted at both ends and in the middle.  This is her favorite thing to do besides walking and eating.  I can’t refuse.  I grab my end.

The tug begins.  It’s amazing how heavy 35 lbs can be when combined with a mental exercise (on her part) to will herself to weigh more.  She drops her center of gravity as I lift and suddenly it feels more like 50 or 60 lbs.  I yank.  She comes off the floor.  We whip the rope back and forth across the floor.

Then I begin to spin around.  All four of her feet come off the ground and she hangs on, eyes bright, as I whirl her around five, six, ten times before setting her down again.  She, at least, is in heaven.

Gloom dissipates.  I’m still grinning.

I like my dog.

Coffey

Getting There

I’ve always been impatient.  So much so, it could almost be considered pathological.  I’ve had to learn patience like a religious observance, and it chafes, it does.  My father is one of those people for whom the act of doing is a pleasure in and of itself.  An attitude I’ve been able to emulate consistently in only one thing.  He was once a  gunsmith and I recall watching him—for short periods of time only, mind you—sanding a rifle stock.  He’d work on it for days, running the papers in ever finer grains over the wood until he had achieved such a penetrating perfection as might be possible before moving on to painstakingly applying the varnish…ah, he was rapt.  In just about everything I ever saw him do, there was a level of immersion in the process that I at first found baffling and now envy, because he really loved the doing.

I did not.  I wanted the finished product, to hell with the path to it.  I would always have preferred, for instance, to buy the model cars and ships and planes already completed rather than go through the essentially tedious process of assembling them.  Building them did not fascinate me, it was an obstacle to what I wanted, which was the thing itself.  Even among my peers, at a certain age, I found this careful, cautious approach to doing things frustrating.  Get on with it!  Let’s finish it!

I recognize now what I’ve missed and on some level it pains me, but the fact remains that I am not enamored of the steps between point A and the final finished object, whatever it is.

So what business do I have trying to be a writer?

Well, because—just as in my photography—I have found pleasure in the reception of the finished product, and for that reception to be worthwhile, the finished product must be of a particular quality.  I have learned to appreciate the emergence of that final product as I see it improving under careful construction.  I still don’t actually want to do the steps, but I’ve learned to enjoy watching the resultant improvement along the way.

I had to trick myself years ago into this state of mind, because I abhor rewrites.  And yet that, for me, is where the Good Stuff happens.  My first trick was to never finish a story before starting on the rewrite.  I’d stop short.  Somewhere in my subsconscious, the djinni of my imagination believed that it was still, somehow, a first draft.  Later I no longer found that necessary, because I’d stumbled on the emergent quality aspect, even while really disliking the actual rewriting.  (Perverse, yes, I know, but there you are.)

The current book I’m working on is giving me a new problem—or rather an old problem in a new guise—along these lines.  I’m rushing to get to where I really want to be.  Which means…

Wait.  Back up.  Let me explain.

That was an example.  I have a core idea for the book, which is soon to be revealed, but I have to get my main character to the place where it can be revealed in such a manner that he is ready for what he discovers.  He must go on a quest.  He doesn’t even know he’s on one at this point.  But to be effective, the events of the quest must be plausible, they must be exciting, they must ramp up the tension.  And I’m rushing through these steps, impatient to get to the Cool Part.

This is where I come to another one of my little tricks.  I will finish these chapters, lame as I now see them to be, and print them out.  I will take them to another part of the house and go over them in pen.  Then I will pick up a fountain pen and start rewriting them by hand.

Don’t ask me why, but it works.  It slows me down enough that my conscious skills come to bear on the material that came out basically from my unconscious in a thick stream.  I break it down, I order it, I add in what needed to be there all along.

Then I return to the computer and start rewriting.  Further modifications are then made on the hand-written text.  But when it’s over, the words convince, the scenes make sense, the excitement I was about to muffle under a blanket of impatience manifests.

Pain in the butt, really.

I don’t have to do this so much when I’m writing something that doesn’t have such Cool Scenes as the one I’m rushing toward, wherein the coolness comes along in due course just through the writing itself.  But the last book I wrote I found myself having to do this in order to make sure I had the period right.  Adding detail from the 1780s in by hand, restructuring with the new material in front of me.

I sometimes wish I were otherwise, but it’s a bit late now, and like I say I’ve learned a whole suite of tricks to make me do the work properly in spite of my urgent desire to see if finished.

One of these months I intend to try an experiment.  When I was a kid I had a model of the H.M.S. Victory, the British three-masted warship.  It was a beautiful, complex model, and I did not put it together.  My dad did.  He didn’t want to see glue runs on the hull or badly-fitted joins.  He assembled it and it drove me insane because it took the better part of two weeks.  But it was gorgeous.

I’ve acquired that model kit.  Maybe not exactly the same one, but the same ship and it appears to be just as complex.  One of these days I will clear space on my workbench and start on it and see if I can find that joy of process.  I may by now have tricked myself into it.  We’ll see.

Anniversary…of sorts

I dug up an old diary a few months ago.  From time to time I’ve tried to keep one of these, sometimes going so far as to try for journal status, but I just can’t seem to sustain it.  So there are these relics lying about that occasionally unearth that give me a glimpse into what daily weirdness I was into back in 19—

The 20th Century.   That’s when I did a great deal of this sort of thing.  I suppose ultimately that my own life bores me while I’m living it.  Or maybe I’m too busy living it to record it.  Whatever.  But this one is from 1988, which was a Very Important Year for me.

Here is the entry for February 20.

Paul’s Books—Billy Budd, DesCartes, ets.  Gravois Bootery.  Gym,

Well, well, well!  Call me a red-tailed gibbon!  Clarion—the fools—accepted me.  They have no idea what they’re letting themselves in for.  Nor do I.

Twenty-one years ago (yesterday, technically, but I didn’t have time to write this till today) I received my acceptance from Clarion.  As you may see from the link, they’re in San Diego now, but then it was in Michigan, MSU specifically, in East Lansing.  It was a very nerve-wracking time.  I’d sold exactly four short stories up till then, one of which had been to a pro magazine, fetching a handsome check, but never saw publication because the magazine went belly-up.  (Actually, the story was eventually published in The Magazine of Fantasy and Science Fiction, but in an altered version.)  I was getting desperate.  I didn’t know why I couldn’t sell.  So I applied to Clarion, figuring that if they rejected me I’d give up.

They took me.  I went, I learned, I started selling stories.  Now it is 21 years later.

I’ve just finished a substantial rewrite on a novella, per request.  It’s such a thorough rewrite that it might as well be a new story.  If the editors in question take it, it will be my first new sale in a few years.  But working on it has served to remind me, viscerally, why I like writing so much.  So I’m jazzed again.  I’ll try to maintain it through more stories and a new novel or two.

So happy anniversary to me.  Clarion made a difference.  It’s a good date.

New Words

I’ve been working on a novella lately and this past week I found myself fully immersed in it.  I found the groove, so to speak, and have been barreling ahead with considerable glee.  It’s the thing about writing I most love and the thing that hasn’t been there for several months, not since I finished my historical and mailed it off in May.  Even before that it was sporadic.

But I’ve slipped into the stream on this one and I owe it to a couple of perceptive editorial remarks from the people to whom I’d like to sell it.  That part I haven’t had for years now.  The last time I receive decent editorial feedback was from the folks at BenBella, who published Remains.  They did a thorough and remarkable job editing that book and made it better than my original.

I haven’t placed much of anything in the last few years.  My numbers really suck for most of my novels and because of the tracking system now in place everyone knows it.  I’m thinking that one of these months I will pass into the oblivion of being deleted from the system, so I might get a fresh start.  But I am running out of patience for that.

One of the things I’ve had enormous difficulty with since about 2004 is short fiction.  Just haven’t been able to finish a short story.  My hope with this novella is that the block will break and I can start doing short stories again.

I tend to think in Big Ideas, and generally a short story doesn’t have the carrying capacity for them, so they kind of wallow and sink before I can bring them into dock.  This novella does has a Big Idea, but at 25,000 words it had the size to carry it.  I hope so, anyway.  I have half a dozen short stories at least in various stages of completion and I would like to have the mental space to finish them and get them out.

But for the moment, I’m having fun with a new story.  Stayed tuned.

No, um, well, You Know What Over 18!!

I have said for years that the convulsions of the Religious Right over abortion has less to do with fetuses than with sex.  Now that we have proof over time that Abstinence Only education DOES NOT WORK, these folks have decided that rather than recant they will go on an even wilder offensive by attacking university level programs.

All I can do anymore is shake my head and wonder  “Just what is it with these people?”

But what really annoys me are the many politicoes who go along with this nonsense and can’t seem to muster the nerve to tell them to, well, fuck off.  I mean, really—they can’t honestly be that numerous.

Or can they?

Reading On The Rise

According to this report, reading is on the rise in America for the first time in a quarter century.  It’s difficult for me to express how pleased this makes me.

Civilization and its discontents have been in the back of my mind since I became aware of how little reading most people do.  To go into a house—a nice house,well-furnished, a place of some affluence—and see no books at all has always given me a chill, espeically if there are children in the house.  Over the last 30 years, since I’ve been paying attention to the issue, I’ve found a bewildering array of excuses among people across all walks of life as to why they never read.  I can understand fatigue, certainly—it is easier to just flip on the tube and veg out to canned dramas—but in many of these instances, reading has simply never been important.  To someone for whom reading has been the great salvation, this is simply baffling.

Reading, I believe, is the best way we have to gain access to the world short of physically immersing ourselves in different places and cultures.  Even for those who have the opportunity and resource to travel that extensively, reading provides a necessary background for the many places that will be otherwise inaccessibly alien to our sensibilities.

A book is a significant encoding of someone’s mind.  A life, if you will, which is why I tend to see bookburning as a form of homicide (euphemistically, mind you, but that’s about how strongly I feel about it).  When you read a book—and in this instance I mean a book of fiction or memoir or essay, something written in response to a desire or need to communicate something of the self (as opposed to instruction manuels or the like)—and comprehend what is there, you are sharing something profound with another human being whom you may never—can never, sometimes—meet.  The characters live when you let them, they walk around in the imagination, they show you things and take you places and teach.

Oh, yes, they teach.  They give us the opportunity to know different kinds of human being, in different ways, and while we might not embrace those ways or people or wish to emulate them, we can know them.  Deep reading opens the world for us.

Movies and television do not do this.  Not that they can’t, mind you, but because we are passive receptors to what passes pre-digested before us, our participation—our active interrogation of the text, if you will—is barely brought into play.  Where in reading we must participate by “decoding” what is on the page and partner with the author is bringing the images to life in our own imaginations, film does all that for us.

For those who are deeply read or deeply sensitive, what can be derived from film and theater can certainly be rich in its own way, but I have found over time that those who read as much as they watch have richer reactions to what passes on the screen, have better conversations about what they have just seen, have more to bring to the piece than those who do not read.

Reading builds intellectual muscle in ways that cannot be done by other media.

This is, perhaps, mere personal prejudice, but I think not.  I think the broad, multifaceted internal lives developed by the habit of reading over time makes us better able to understand more of the world around us.

Granted, one could spend one’s life reading nothing but one kind of thing, being stuck in a rut with a single strand of literature, and thus trapping the very process which reading ought to enable…

But to not read at all seems to me a self impoverishment.  A tragedy.

So for me this NEA report is nothing but excellent news. For the first time as a reader and writer and an advocate of reading, I am hopeful that I will not be continually in a shrinking minority.

It’s a good day.

The Future On The Chopping Block…Again

I should state up front here that I really don’t have a problem ideologically with Federal Spending.  That great boogieman of right vs. left.  I pay taxes, I want things for it.  And I frankly like most of what I end up paying for.  I’d like to see priorities shift, but I don’t believe cutting the budget will accomplish that.  I’d like to see an expand space program.  I would like to see an expanding educational budget.  I would love a sensible national health care program.  I would like to see less spending on weapons systems that never get out of planning or away from prototype and I would certainly like to see less government subsidy of pointless corporate programs that would best be served by shareholders telling their boards of directors what to do with company money.  I dislike intensely public funding of sports arenas, for instance, particular for corporations that could pay for them out of petty cash.

It’s not that I desire a welfare state—I agree with many of the opponents of welfare that it tends to be destructive over time, but I disagree with them that it necessarily must be so, but we’re not going to settle that argument any time soon.  (The problems are in implementation and then a lack of any kind of support that would meaningfullly get people off the dole and self-sufficient—like child care, free health care, and jobs training.  We get those things here and there, occasionally, depending on the whims of the prevailing party, and when they are there they are shown to work, but we can’t quite get out of the mindset that tells us that these things are handouts to the undeserving, statistics to the contrary notwithstanding.)

Just so we’re clear about how I stand on government spending. Now, then.

The rhetoric that accompanied Obama’s election included much from the downsized Republicans about looking forward to working with the new president and coming to grips with national problems in the spirit of a fresh start.  However, the stimulus package—which may well be too big—has forced the Republicans to declare themselves.  We’re hearing a lot about wanting more tax cuts—almost exclusively tax cuts—in lieu of spending in the form of direct aid.  This is a Republican mantra now.  Tax cuts.  The question, of course, is really this:  what good are tax cuts when you’re already buried in debt?  Granted, it frees up (theoretically) money for critical and immediate payments, but if the idea is to put people back to work tax cuts are not the solution.  Because corporate America is mired in over-leveraged debt burdens that must be paid down before something mundane like hiring can happen.  Tax cuts, therefore, won’t have any kind of immediate impact on the jobless rate.  In time it might, depending on several other factors, the most significant of which would be a newfound corporate sense of ethics which would prevent them from continuing the pillage of their own capital for all the things that have gotten us into this mess in the first place.  Labor is at the bottom of the ladder of what they see as important—hence the tongue lashing Obama gave them for paying out bonuses while asking for federal aid.  As for working people?  What good does a tax cut do someone who isn’t paying taxes because he or she has no income?

But this was to be expected.  It is an attitude born out of the mixed priorities of what has become the Right, one of which is fiscal responsibility (I used to support Republicans on this count) the other of which is the more Libertarian view (borne of the Grover Norquist faction) that government is always the problem and must be pruned back radically.  Hence tax cuts, in order to curtail revenues in order to force the government to reduce its size and, one must realize, its influence.

This was to be expected, though.  They have to stick by their perceived brief in the hope that not all of their program of the last eight (or twenty-eight) years was rejected by the part of their constituency who switched parties to vote in Obama and Democratic majorities in both Houses.

But now we have a fairly clear statement that these folks are a new form of Ostrich.  Obama made it clear during the campaign and since taking office that he intends to put science back in the forefront of our national life.  The steady erosion of science by continual right wing gnawing since Reagan took office has left us in a bad state in relation to the rest of the world in terms even hard core Republicans must grasp—competitiveness.  The canceling of the Super Colider in Texas was bad enough, but we’ve seen all manner of sidelining of science, most especially during the Bush years, most prominently (but not exclusively) with regards to environmental science.  Basic research is down, exploratory science is struggling.  While the late and (by many) unlamented Senator Proxmire did inestimable damage to science by making it the object of ridicule and derision, the fact is that during the Fifties, Sixties, and good part of the Seventies it had been because of our national investment in Pure Research that America ended up at the vanguard of science.  The payback from NASA’s Apollo program alone in areas as disparate as meteorology and medical technology is almost incalculable.

What characterized this was the willingness to take risks.  Let scientists research what they would on the assumption that somewhere along the line something would emerge that would benefit everyone.  It was a gamble, but of a win-win vareity.  Things did result, technologies and fundamental insights that propelled our education, our understanding and, yes, our economy in ways that could not have been predicted.

The unpredictable nature of it drives certain types of people insane.

Reagan’s assumption when he took office was that if we cut out the government involvement in—well, in anything—then the private sector would move in and take up the slack.  Nice idea and on paper there was nothing wrong with it, except it didn’t happen.  (Personally, I think Reagan was one of our most gullible presidents—big business told him “Ronny, take the restraints off and we will make this country great, we will be responsible corporate citizens, we’ll do great things for America” and he believed them.  (Top be fair, in some cases those corporate entities probably did do their best, but most just entered upon the feeding frenzy deregulation permitted and we’re paying for it now.)  Reagan believed them and they took what he gave them and screwed the country.  In terms of fundamental scientific research, corporate spending on it declined fairly steadily since them.  (One of the most productive research facilities in history, Bell Labs, is pulling out of basic research (an announcement made in August 2008) after years of declining funding which left only four scientists in the institution doing any kind of pure science.)  Corporate America cannot stand paying for gambles, even when historically this gamble pays off magnificently.  (The shareholders would rather have the money in their dividend checks.)

So when Obama declared a recommitment to science, given his otherwise pragmatic vision, it was clear that he understood that in order for there to be a future, we have to look for one.  And to look for it in such a way that it will benefit us as we go.

The stimulus package included a great deal of money—minuscule compared to the overall amount—for the various science departments which have been all but strangled over the last decade.  According to this link through Panda’s Thumb, Republicans want to cut deeply into science.

The most egregious cut in this list in the excision a billion dollars—the whole stimulus allocation—for the Nation Science Foundation.  But nothing is left untouched.

The most obvious conclusion to draw, as if that had not already become clear from all the other wrangling over this, is that the Republican leadership simply doesn’t get it, that they don’t see the connection between the free and subsidized exploration of all those things coming under the heading “Science” and the growth of both economic prosperity and the human spirit.

A less obvious conclusion, and perhaps a bit on the fringe of reasonable, is that Republicans, conjoined as they are to elements in our society which have for lo these many years done everything possible to destroy our confidence in science and our attachment to its products, both intellectual and material, cannot countenance increased support of the very institutions whose pronouncements they have denied and thwarted at every turn.  It is disconcerting to see such a thorough-going denial of investment in the very fields that might—will probably, in fact almost certainly given its track record—do the most to improve our future.

But it is the future that is the enemy.  It is the certainty that it will be different and that we must change in order to live in it that disturbs what has become a large segment of the Republican Party’s natural constituency.  It is a denial of all that we must face and, more importantly, all that we must embrace in order to become what we’ve been declaring since WWII that we are—the bright beacon of freedom in the world.

The spending on infrastructure, on schools, on basic support mechanisms is being condemned by Republicans as unnecessary spending, because it is not stimulatory.  But everyone will use those things and because they won’t have to rely on some private entity to do or not do them depending on the whims of the shareholders they will be there for everyone to take advantage of.  (The interstate highway system enabled a huge spurt of economic growth once it was constructed.  The benefits to transportation allowed business to increase profits.  True, it also enabled White Flight and has created the problem of Suburban and Exurban sprawl, but that too was a spur to economic growth.  Yet critics at the time saw it as “wasteful” spending.)

There is a link in the article to the legislators who are part of this demand to shut down a potential road to a better future.  Perhaps we should gear up now to see that they are ousted in the next election cycle.

But then, maybe you think all this money for basic science is a bad idea, too.  After all, science is all about the future and the world and the universe and tells us things that make us different.  Scary.

And exciting.

Attic Thoughts

Doing the Shelfari thing has been both fun and frustrating.  I always prided myself on my memory, but it amazes me to discover just how porous it really is.  Titles keep occurring to me at odd moments now that I’ve got my hard drive working on all this recall.  Plus the annoyance of remembering titles but being unable to recall having actually read the book.

For instance, there is a host of books which were required reading in high school that I may well have gotten out of reading because I had read so much other material that the extra credit book reports forgave my lapses re the syllabus.  A Separate Peace for instance.  I know there was a session on it my sophomore year, but I don’t think I actually read it.  There are others.  And many of them I do not own anymore, so I can’t browse them (at least at the moment) to see if that triggers the memory.

Then there are novels I know very well I read but don’t have a single line from them.  Most of these are in the “classics” category.  For example, I know I read Madame Bovary but…and I have that one and as I go through it, my mind is a blank.  Willa Cather is the same way.

On the one hand, this is kind of thrilling, because it means I can reread those novels as if they were brand new to my experience.  On the other hand, do I really want to?  I have read Henry James, I know I have.  Turn of the Screw to be sure, but only the wispiest traces remain in memory.  I was left with such a foul taste from him, though, that I doubt I would want to revisit him.  There are others in that category.  Gogol.  Dostoevsky.  Solzhenitzin.  The Russians are less because I found them impenetrable than simply bleak and depressing.

On still another hand, I’ve been recalling books I had totally forgotten about until I put my mind to remembering them.  The Mary Stewart Merlin trilogy, for one thing, which I remember now with great fondness, but which hadn’t crossed my mind in 25 years.

The shelf is now over 1600.  I’ll probably ardently pursue titles until I hit 2000, then lay off for a time.  Even that would leave a great deal unremarked.  I don’t find that too shabby at all.

But perusing the lists, it is so clear where my preference lay.  It is predominantly science fiction.  No surprise, really.  But there are some classics of SF that I haven’t read, either.  A Canticle For Liebowitz, Alas, Babylon, The Left Hand of Darkness…these books are now or once were on my physical book shelf, but I simply never got around to reading them.

So much to look forward to.  I can’t afford to die till I’m a hundred at this rate.