thumb drives and oven clocks: a litblog, of sorts

Immortality; or, 2006 is my Independence Day

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Editor's note: the following post is kind of jumping the gun, a bit, but it's also kind of becoming quickly out of date, as well; it's a little paradoxical. There's more books from earlier this year yet to be discussed and a book from right now that is in the process of being discussed but since time marches on (time is no man's Elizabeth!) this post is going out now, whatever warts may remain upon its fair skin. This post will also require a sort of explanatory follow-up post, which will follow in either timely or untimely fashion. Or not at all. Professionalism.

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There are a lot of books out there. Think about it too much, you'll drive yourself bananas. Limited resources and all. One pair of eyes. The preciousness of each spare moment. Having a lifespan.

Me, I try not to think about it too much.

By which I mean I think about it constantly.

It's sick.

This is one reason I resist setting myself up with reading lists. Strict lists fill time and have ends and remind me of my own mortality.

I do not enjoy contemplating the immediacy of my mortality.

So, instead, immortal, I bounce. I pick up whatever looks good, next. Sometimes I know a book or two out what's coming next. Sometimes not. I have ideas, I have moods, I have goals. I have huge piles of books to read, but they're more quantum mechanical than classical, less propositional logic, more chaos theory.

This usually serves me well. The good books coalesce and I get dizzy because everything is awesome. Other times, the system crashes. Everything sucks. I quit reading. I wash dishes. I update my iPod. I contemplate my career. As scary as that can get (maybe tonight I will update my resume? that sounds like fun?) I always bounce back and my brain fizzes and the plates pile back up in the sink, where they belong.

The iPod still gets updated. But that's another story.

I think I mentioned in an earlier post that I could see a path filling the rest of this year, constructing itself out of the books that I need to read like whoa. This would typically bother me the way hitting the seventh hour of a nine hour road trip bothers me. When the odometer becomes more interesting than the sights. Checkboxes, checked.

The problem is, right now? This Summer of Dostoevsky '06 project isn't going to finish itself.

Since I started this project, a couple weeks ago, I have had one goal: to read Fyodor Dostoevsky's five big novels, beginning with rereads of Crime and Punishment and The Idiot, before moving on to reading Demons and The Adolescent each for the first time, after which I would finish with a reread of The Brothers Karamazov.

Karamazov is a book I was assigned at the end of high school. I read most of it, those final weeks of youth. I loved it. Reading it probably helped get me on the path to being wherever I am today. Thanks for nothing, Dostoevsky!

Honestly though, sincerely: I'm terrified of it. Rereading it. What if it sucks? What if my tastes changed? Maybe the new translation blows. I might wind up questioning every decision I've ever made. I might have to quit.

I might have to become an economic theorist.

And yet, though this book could be the frozen donkey wheel at the bottom of the unexplainable pit that spews golden light out from underneath my life, the turning of which will send me spiraling through space and time on paths that could literally break my brain, I know, in my gut, as a true hero must, that we have to go back.

Well: I do. You keep doing your own thing. Unless you want to go back with me. That's cool, too.

I've put going back off for a good long while now. (Sort of like growing up.) For the last fifty or sixty or two hundred books or so (ask my girlfriend how many times I've brought it up by now) (actually, don't) Karamazov has been the book I have been just about to get to one or two more books from now. Each book or two had a habit of turning into another book or two, though. It's been the perpetual priority number one at the top of the metaphorical office white board alongside all the other priority number ones of the moment. The hour. The month. The month after that.

The Kindle did not exist, when I began this project.

Now, today, here, with the coffee table stack sitting at the same height for months now, books filling gaps faster than the stack can shrink, a never-ending list of old fat books I need to read next wrapping around the apartment like a noose, books by authors who I will buy in hardcover coming out left and right, books by authors I would not buy in hardcover that I got interested in when they were first out in hardcover finally starting to come out in paperback, the weight of unavoidable mortality becoming itself more unavoidable each passing day, and Dostoevsky, all the while, sitting, patiently, waiting his turn, something has to give.

Business time demands it be gotten down to.

So: a set list.

The gates are now closed, for a while, and 2006 and 2010 are mashing like ham and eggs in an antimatter omelette, and things are going to run something like this: a seven book rock-block of gotta-dos, curious-enough-to-dos, have-meant-to-dos, and why-not-dos, in no particular order.

So, if you are a stalker who likes to play along at home (the bushes outside the apartment building), here's a chance for you to grab a title or two from my stack—I mean that metaphorically, get your own copies, taking mine would defeat the purpose—so you can share your comments with me and I can share my comments with you and through such means as are available to us the dialogue will occur and the world will be a better place, my fellow immortal.

Also note that this means...well, I'll tell you later, what to note that this means. (It's mostly about 2011, which might as well just not even bother showing up to work, because it is fired though it has already quit? Question mark? Something.)

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