TALK ABOUT SEX, politics, or religion or another equally inappropriate topic as perceived by our hypersensitive society nowadays, and the odds are good you will offend someone to the point they become visibly angry and upset, and will attempt to physically harm you for saying what you said.
But talk about literature - as in what you are reading at the moment - and it is as if you have suddenly opened a set of floodgates, releasing the humanity confined within: A given person's body language, which might otherwise be defensive and combative, relaxes, suggesting an openness and friendliness otherwise not seen much of in the world nowadays. A smile comes to their expression. They become animated and passionate. They gesture with their hands. They stumble over their own words in their desire to express themselves over what they are reading.
I know this to be fact, because more often than not it is the case.
A few weeks ago I found myself attending an awards dinner of sorts. An affair which I privately vow year in and year out not to attend again, but which I attend because of the fragile hope I hold onto that there will be food I want to eat - instead, oh, say, a head of chilled lettuce garnished with withered and almost mummified lemon slices and what appears to be a diseased clump of parsley, followed by a main course involving what may or may not be tripe or haggis or potted meat or. . . perhaps, boiled spam. (At least that's what I keep telling myself it is. I refuse to guess at what it might actually be out of concern I will damage my gag reflex trying to clear my body of it upon learning the horrid and sordid truth. The fact there are no cats or squirrels apparent in this particular neighbor does nothing to alleviate my concerns.)
I suppose a reason - the reason - I continue to subject myself to this carnival of the absurd is because of the company I get to keep, by way of the antics that often ensue. Last year, for example, there was this fellow and his wife - at least, I think she was his wife; if not, that may go to explain what resulted - who got into what started as a verbal brawl and quickly became a physical one. By the time the dust had settled she had managed to make quick use of several deserts, one or two of which had been topped with whipped cream and soft dark chocolate, and he had managed to sufficiently soil, if not ruin, her egg white silk sleeveless top by way of several bowls of condiments, a main course someone decided to not eat, and a side order of cling peaches.
And that was just for starters. No sooner had these two been sent down to clean themselves up and someone - not me! - made the off-handed remark the woman in question must have learned her hand-to-hand combat techniques from Hillary Clinton.
Although it might not seem possible it went from bad to worse at that point. I heard in the days that followed it was decided to remove the carpet from the dining facilities instead of cleaning because too much. . . tripe or haggis or boiled spam had been ground into it and attempts to successfully clean it failed. The related smells, stink, and stench refused to go away despite repeated attempts to smother it with a multitude of scents and perfumes. And the entire place had to be remodeled after a rather aggressive fumigation.
But as I was saying: I suppose a reason - the reason - I continue to attend this particular dinner is because of the company I get to keep. Excluding such concerns and distractions as the one mentioned and trying not to think about the presumed food involved I embrace the opportunity to catch up with those I don't otherwise see or talk with during the year past.
This year started with an apparent promise of repeating last year: Someone, who had had too much to drink, brought up the subject of politics. Fortunately, he passed out into his head of chilled lettuce, festooned with limp parsley and rotted fruit slices, before the topic went too far, and the table I was seated at went quiet.
As almost everyone at the table considered the fly-infested ice cubes in their respective drinks I mentioned for no apparent reason I was reading - for pleasure - a somewhat obscure text about Charles Dickens.
In a moment less than a moment the occupants of the table went from being withdrawn and somewhat sullen to extroverted and alive. It was, as the saying goes, as if someone flipped a switch and the night became day.
A tanned, well-dressed fellow, probably in his thirties, seated almost opposite me, put his glass down and leaned toward me, wanting to know if the book I was reading was by a writer whose name now eludes me. No, I said. It starts with an 'A'.
A woman seated next to him, on his left, nodded, and remarked she thought she had read the book in question, noting it was quite 'substantial' at more than nine hundred pages.
It is large, I replied. But well worth trying to balance on my chest at night, while I'm in bed.
The admission of personal habit took the conversation to another level. Of the dozen people seated at the table eleven readily admitted to reading in bed. The twelfth person tried to initially deny she read in bed until her 'better half' - as he introduced himself previously - pointed out she had gone through several 'coal-miner head lamps' over the past few years in her pursuit of bedtime reading.
I don't mind replacing them, he said. But I wish she take it off before she falls asleep. I don't know how many times I been waken in the night by the beam of that thing, and it isn't my fault I take a swing at it, trying to turn it off.
Everyone at the table laughed, even the wearer of the headgear. Of course, that took the conversation to another level, involving personal preferences with regards to where one read and what they did at the same time.
For a brief time the conversation took on a somewhat x-rated nature, but it was quickly - and thankfully - pulled back to this side of being blue and for adult audiences only. (I confess: I did laugh when one person at the table made a joke involving parts of the human anatomy and 'dog-ears'. But I did not laugh or attempt to supress a laugh when 'book-ends' were put forth as sexual humor. The humor attempted was, at best, immature and amateurish.) A momentarily lull followed, and I was concerned the conversation, once delightful and joyful, might take a turn for the worse, and once more the facilities would require an extreme make-over - involving a bulldozer, among other things. My concerns were unfounded. It turned out the lull happened because everyone had been laughing so hard they needed to catch their breath, and then we were off again - once our drinks were freshened.
So now to my point (No doubt to the relief of many readers of this monthly self-indulgent and self-serving screed, who send notes expressing their concerns over my often habit of digressing into a digression within a digression wrapped in a riddle, tied with a puzzle, slathered with rancid German yellow mustard, and smothered with haggis or boiled spam, or some equally offensive and reprehensible concoction, that causes them to go screaming to the abyss, as they try to overcome their gag reflex, wondering if they will hurt it in the process.): We live in the Information Age - an exciting time, given the potential and opportunity it allows for so many in so many places.
Ten years ago, on a personal note as example, much of my writing had a very limited audience. There was a simple reason for this: Because the technologies available to me restricted the audience I could realize. A decade on the audience for my writing has grown so dramatically I am in awe of what is before me, what awaits by way of new technologies that are the Information Age.
At the same time these technologies have a down side to them: A decade ago, if I wanted to communicate with someone I knew about an idea I had for a short story or a novel or a screenplay, I had to write and mail a letter, or make a telephone call, or schedule an appointment to meet them for lunch or dinner. And that was just a person within what I consider reaching distance.
Nowadays, if I want to communicate with someone all I have to do is send an e-mail. And I do. A lot. Just today, for example, I sent a dozen e-mails to people around the world.
Around the world. Think about that fact, and react as I do: Wow.
But know at the same time that ability has a down side to it. None of the twelve people I communicated with today I have ever met, and it is unlikely, for mostly economic reasons, I ever will.
So from the Information Age comes a diminishing of our humanity, individually and collectively. No longer do we shake hands with others. No longer do we embrace when we encounter another because that luxury, that element of our existence, is slowing being done away with.
Which brings me back to that annual torture I subject myself to: A dinner of rot and rancid foodstuff. I suppose, when I consider why I do this it is for a simple but important reason: Because I get to be with people. Because I am allowed human contact: A firm handshake, a warm embrace, a light touch.
Writing is a lonely existence. It has to be to be successful. It is a singular pursuit, realized only by the superficially selfish efforts of one - the Writer.
I know of a Writer who published a novel a year for more than twenty years. Roughly ten years ago he announced he would be taking a year off from this schedule. The announcement was met with dismay and outrage from his fans, who had come to expect an annual dose of their favorite scribe, and his subsequent disappearance from the publishing landscape did nothing to satisfy their cries and mewlings. (Oh, yes: Fans make such sounds and noises, as well as others, sufficiently rude in purpose and intent.)
About seven years after he dropped out of sight he resurfaced to announce the forthcoming publication of a new novel.
When asked to explain why his year-long hiatus had become seven and why he needed a vacation in the first place - because Writers live such easier lives - the explanation was the following:
To write his first novel he had taken a month off from the job he had at the time, and had fled to an isolated cabin he had access to. There, removed from the world at large, he wrote, in a long hand, a novel that provided him financial support and creative freedom.
Because this method worked he decided to repeat it for his next novel. But this time his removal from the world lasted six weeks. Once more, when the work was published it was met with praise and success. So once more the removal from the world was engaged - for eight weeks this time.
All his subsequent works met with success and praise. That was the good news. The bad news was that each time he removed himself from the world to write he added two weeks to his writing schedule.
Do the math involved, if you will - but know this: By the time he published his twentieth book he was spending so much time out of the world he found it almost impossible to return because the contact with other humans was unsettling.
So he decided the time had come to spend more time with people - thus the need for the one year break that become seven years.
For seven years he traveled the world, meeting, greeting, embracing, touching, and holding people who had made him the writing succees he was.
And learning as he did what writing is all about: Humanity.
In the Information Age humanity is seemingly a lost cause. In the Information Age people are plugged into the latest news about an earthquake in China or a typhoon in Sri Lanka. But they are disconnected from that which makes them what they are: Human. Humanity is seemingly a lost cause: The intimate touch is a lost art. The act of caring for another by simply being there is increasingly unknow.
It is a contradiction that makes no sense whatsoever. How can we be human when we don't know what it is to be human? How can we create Art in the form of literature when the very thing that allows for such things is increasingly supressed and discarded in favor of sterile, inanimate, and soulless machines and their like called 'IPod'or 'Blackberry' or 'Mac'?
Awhile ago I was having a personal conversation with a publisher I know, who was lamenting the demise of the publishing industry. He holds a Master's Degree in Business Administration, yet could not see what the cause of his demise was.
When I suggested it was because of the technologies he exploited for financial gain, that were now killing him, he just stared at me, his mouth slightly open, without making a sound.
Then he swallowed and came to life, uttering a very profound, "Well, I'll be a son of a bitch. You're right."
The publishing house he worked for has since collapsed and he was put out of work. But while he may down he is not out: He has decided to return to the fundamental and basic reasons he first entered his profession: The Writer and the Reader.
Presently he is working to bring a limited edition book to print. He is not only the publisher but also the author. He wrote the book in question years ago when his oldest daughter was barely five years old. Today, as she works alongside him she is thirty-six. There is no expectation on their part to make a fortune from the book, but if they do - so be it. The reason they are doing this book is because they want to reconnect. With themselves, with each other, and with those who make writing what it is, what it should be about.
All the while they are working tirelessly to do as I am doing - to restart the conversation that once made the world turn: The conversation that begins simply: Once upon a time. . .