In my library bag there is treasure. I snuffle through it with my piggish snout and find a pile of books. Since I am no longer young but about to croak soon enough I have a bad habit now of going through a book in a very unloyal fashion. I check out the first part. If it doesn't grab me by the throat and shake me about then it is put down. There are other books where I manage to get through the first five short stories and then I wonder--What the heck? Life is meaningless and unproductive as it is in real life but do I need to read this in fiction? Down goes that book. A book has to be productive and give you something you can hold on in the storms of life. Surely the book --"Systematic" that I can understand and even feel some sort of kinship for since I want to be systematic in my writing (but never am) --surely this book has some answers to the mystery of life? Or will there be more digging up of the weedy field to plant spuds and only have a soggy mess after with rotting potato tubers and no crops?
I have left the National Book award book that was hurting my head, the short stories and now enter this book that has figments of science to get glimpses at what might be a decent book. But then why am I here with my sore right finger tapping away? A middle age brain can only take in so much before it goes down.
At the bottom of the library bag are the books on CD that I have taken out. If my brain is fried I will listen to the sympathetic voice of a speaker telling the story that I can then "read" when my eyes hurt, and the brain feels as if it is on fire.
But then this is all that reading is for me---putting the brain on fire.
And when everything is ashed maybe the hidden can be seen.