The Balfour Manoeuvre
Whenever I walk into a bookstore these days, I walk in with the firm intention of buying something light. My self-imposed reading list has been pretty heavy of late, and I have a great deal of books on the back-burner that require attention. I'm interested in reading something that's clever, well written, but fairly frothy. Something where after I finish it, I can think "Well, that was entertaining!" and then never have to think about it again. From where I'm sitting, some of the books on my dresser "To-Read" pile include: Crime and Punishment, The Adolescent, Beowulf, The Nicomachean Ethics, The Ascent to Truth, The Wings of the Dove, and Simone Weil: A life. I have a problem.
I always feel compelled to buy books like these, even when I know I could use a break, either from serious reading or reading in general. They usually sit on my dresser along with the other serious books that I keep meaning to read. I'll cite one incident as an illustrative example, an example I've come to think of as The Balfour Manoeuvre. Over the long weekend I walked into Balfour Books with the firm resolution that I would buy something fairly frivolous. I walked up to the first display table, and there right in front me was a copy of Graham Greene's Twenty-One Stories. After picking that up - I really didn't have a choice - I then found myself in the religion section picking out a copy of Thomas Merton's The New Man. The important thing to remember here is that I don't remember walking over to the religion section. I was just there. I then walked out of Balfour's, the proud new owner of a collection of short stories by a grim Catholic novelist and a collection of meditations by an existentialist monk. Go figure.
A good question would be why I keep doing this to myself. I don't have the time to read all of these, and at the rate I'm buying them it'll be another twenty-six years before I've finished them all. Some of my motivation can be traced back to my alienated teen snob years, where as a "serious" "intelligent" reader I would only have time for the most "serious" "intelligent" and "thought-provoking" books. I really did think like that, and it would be a lie to say that I've stopped completely. Sometimes when I'm looking at a light read, my teenage self scoffs, rolls his eyes and declares "You're not going to read that, are you?". It's not always blatant, but I know it's still there somewhere, just below the surface of my subconscious.
Of course, we all know that the dark underside of snobbery is a terrible insecurity. As a teenager I didn't play well with others. Back then, given the choice between going to a party and re-reading Thus spoke Zarathustra, I would've chosen the latter. Reading, especially books of philosophy and the like, was a way for me to reassure myself that I wasn't the gawky idiot that I suspected myself of being. It allowed me to construct a rickety self-image of Sam as a precocious, willful adolescent who cared more about the important things, who was deep and wouldn't be caught dead watching something as trivial and superficial as "Friends". Even when these trivial and superficial people got better grades than I did, I would think that they were just obnoxious keeners, and had no idea of the true worth of things, or the heights and depths that a truly aristocratic and spiritual nature was capable of. Yeah, I read that much Nietzsche.
Probably also could've used some lighter reading... and a shave
I always feel compelled to buy books like these, even when I know I could use a break, either from serious reading or reading in general. They usually sit on my dresser along with the other serious books that I keep meaning to read. I'll cite one incident as an illustrative example, an example I've come to think of as The Balfour Manoeuvre. Over the long weekend I walked into Balfour Books with the firm resolution that I would buy something fairly frivolous. I walked up to the first display table, and there right in front me was a copy of Graham Greene's Twenty-One Stories. After picking that up - I really didn't have a choice - I then found myself in the religion section picking out a copy of Thomas Merton's The New Man. The important thing to remember here is that I don't remember walking over to the religion section. I was just there. I then walked out of Balfour's, the proud new owner of a collection of short stories by a grim Catholic novelist and a collection of meditations by an existentialist monk. Go figure.
A good question would be why I keep doing this to myself. I don't have the time to read all of these, and at the rate I'm buying them it'll be another twenty-six years before I've finished them all. Some of my motivation can be traced back to my alienated teen snob years, where as a "serious" "intelligent" reader I would only have time for the most "serious" "intelligent" and "thought-provoking" books. I really did think like that, and it would be a lie to say that I've stopped completely. Sometimes when I'm looking at a light read, my teenage self scoffs, rolls his eyes and declares "You're not going to read that, are you?". It's not always blatant, but I know it's still there somewhere, just below the surface of my subconscious.
Of course, we all know that the dark underside of snobbery is a terrible insecurity. As a teenager I didn't play well with others. Back then, given the choice between going to a party and re-reading Thus spoke Zarathustra, I would've chosen the latter. Reading, especially books of philosophy and the like, was a way for me to reassure myself that I wasn't the gawky idiot that I suspected myself of being. It allowed me to construct a rickety self-image of Sam as a precocious, willful adolescent who cared more about the important things, who was deep and wouldn't be caught dead watching something as trivial and superficial as "Friends". Even when these trivial and superficial people got better grades than I did, I would think that they were just obnoxious keeners, and had no idea of the true worth of things, or the heights and depths that a truly aristocratic and spiritual nature was capable of. Yeah, I read that much Nietzsche.
Probably also could've used some lighter reading... and a shaveIt made me feel special, and was my only real defense against the ravages of adolescence. As much as I wanted to believe all of the above was true, it was desperately necessary that other people believed it too. As much as I told myself that my peers were beneath my notice, I still needed their recognition. I wouldn't admit it, but I still judged myself through what I thought their expectations of me must be. Because of course, they must be secretly thinking of me as much as I was secretly thinking of them.
Of course, another element to all this is the obvious one - that these are just the books I prefer to read. Sure, it would be nice to be able to pick up Anne Tyler a little more often - I loved The Accidental Tourist - but if these are the books I want to read, of course there's no shame in it. That would be the perfect counterpoint except for the fact that when I'm between books and going on public transport I bring along a more "intellectual" book. After all, nothing attracts the ladies like Nathanael West.
As a twenty-something, I should probably know a little better. While caring about what other people think is normal and healthy in small doses, my concern is often exaggerated beyond rational levels. You could even call it neurotic. Just not to my face. That would make me self-conscious. You never grow up as fast as you want, and I suppose that one of the things I have to learn to tone down is my sometimes morbid self-consciousness. After all, it's not like everyone's watching my every move, judging everything I say and do, right?
You aren't, are you?
Of course, another element to all this is the obvious one - that these are just the books I prefer to read. Sure, it would be nice to be able to pick up Anne Tyler a little more often - I loved The Accidental Tourist - but if these are the books I want to read, of course there's no shame in it. That would be the perfect counterpoint except for the fact that when I'm between books and going on public transport I bring along a more "intellectual" book. After all, nothing attracts the ladies like Nathanael West.
As a twenty-something, I should probably know a little better. While caring about what other people think is normal and healthy in small doses, my concern is often exaggerated beyond rational levels. You could even call it neurotic. Just not to my face. That would make me self-conscious. You never grow up as fast as you want, and I suppose that one of the things I have to learn to tone down is my sometimes morbid self-consciousness. After all, it's not like everyone's watching my every move, judging everything I say and do, right?
You aren't, are you?
Labels: books, neurosis, pretentious teens
posted by Sam at
2:35 PM
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