When I was six—as AA Milne would say—I read books. As soon as I finished a book I turned right back and reread it. And again. And again. I was a rereader and discovered that rereading was a source of endless delight. When a book was too difficult, I would force myself to continue thinking in a vaguely Wordsworthian way that I was storing up great wealth for future years.
I unwittingly became an insufferable snob—or, to be kind, I developed good taste. I wanted to experience what the adults did and started reading Proust, Joyce, and Virginia Woolf plus many poets by the time I was 13. I knew that someday these books would become as transparent as Dick, Jane, and Sally. I was wrong about that, but with each rereading comes greater pleasure. This blog is dedicated to re-reading and re-re-reading.
I don’t have many people to speak with about books. Mr. Gubbinal is great, but he’s extremely academic and often cannot remove himself from that arcane jargon of the pedant. It seems as if there are millions of people writing poetry but few willing to read it.
I hope that this blog will become my friend and confidante. It is to be my own private Henry Jamesian ‘ficelle’. Now on to the hard part: I think it will be more difficult to master tags and links than to try to explicate The Waste Land.