Tagged: found objects

Another Page-bound Bread Crumb

It’s happened again, although in less interesting fashion: not all that far into Sjón’s The Blue Fox, I was confronted with the leavings of a previous reader. My predecessor apparently forgot about or had no interest in the promotional offer that ceased to be of value almost three years ago, choosing to use this key to what I surmise would have been some natural nosh as a bookmark instead, or maybe even sticking this little coupon between the pages, not having had any other place to put it at the moment of receiving it, and almost immediately erasing the knowledge thereafter that it had ever come into her/his possession.

               

It did give me brief pause to wonder who the one-time holder of this card had been, and why s/he donated this excellent book. (Was it deemed not good enough to keep? Was this just standard practice, after having finished a volume?) But there really was no air of mystery about this bright-hued promo, or none worthy enough, at least, to be cast alongside the tale’s characters, or its really spectacular ending.

The Blue Fox was one of two books I finished on lengthy train rides this weekend– the final of which provided me with a chunk of time large enough to also get a solid way through Edmund de Waal’s The Hare with Amber Eyes, which I plucked off the bargain shelf of a suburban St. Louis used bookstore before my return journey home. It proved to be magnificent train reading, feeling as it does somewhat like Sebald lite. That lo-cal adjective isn’t in any way meant to disparage the project; de Waal’s exploration of family treasure is, so far, beautifully engaging– but its poetic history is less overtly haunted by spirits that may or may not still be hanging around the author’s own life. Hence the “lite,” as in, less burdened* by the demands of continuing pasts, even as it searches about in days gone by to explain what the author holds in his hands in the present.

Well. I’m now back in the super-short train trips that make up my daily commute, and so there’s no romance of long-distance rail travel to enhance de Waal’s family history. There’s a possibility, though, that a trace of a past reader somewhere in the pages could still pop up, if I’m lucky.

 

* This term, too, is not employed in any negative way; Sebald’s tendency to carry the weight of simultaneous pasts and presents in his writing constitutes one of the most beautiful and deeply satisfying writing styles I know.