Carolyn Piper
Copyright 2001
Recently two friends of mine were discussing my reading habits. "I bet" said one to the other, "that Carolyn reads at traffic lights." Well, I am here to confess that Carolyn does indeed read at traffic lights-- as well as in just about any other situation you can imagine. In fact, if there has been a single unifying element in my life since the age of eight it has been my love of reading.
For years now I have taken this passion of mine seriously. Perhaps too seriously, for recently after confessing to a friend via E-Mail how much I enjoyed using reading to try to puzzle out "the meaning of it all," she immediately shot back: "Why do you even bother to try to figure out the meaning of it all? You're born at point A, you'll die at point B, and your job is to negotiate the path between them having as much fun as you can without stepping on too many toes along the way." I laughed. I also printed it out and tacked it on the wall for future reference. And there it was when just a few days later another friend repeated the message in slightly less prosaic words. To wit: "Hey! Lighten up."
Now it is pretty apparent to everyone who knows me that I love reading, but these two remarks made me begin to ponder the path down which my reading, my mind and my life seemed to be taking me. Have I, I wondered, perhaps become too compulsive, too intense, too, well.... SERIOUS about it? When, I asked myself, was the last time I picked up a "light" book or novel just for the sheer fun of it? At that thought I sat down hard and gulped. I honestly could not remember. And, in a sudden leap of emotion I realized I missed that-- the uncomplicated joy I had known as a child: the joy of experiencing words on a page for the sake of simply enjoying them rather than using them as take off points for Deep Important Thoughts.
It's hard to change long held habits. It is even harder to do so with a light hand -- determination itself being an enemy of sorts of light enjoyment. Nevertheless, I resolved to try. To begin, I decided to take on what was for me the ultimate challenge: mysteries. It had been years since I read one, having become over the years of the same mind as Edmund Wilson who wrote a classic article on the subject for the New Yorker Magazine entitled: "Who CARES Who Killed Roger Aykroyd?" I certainly didn't. I still don't. But I have, since I met Amelia Peabody, come to appreciate their appeal.
Amelia is the alter ego in some eleven books of author Elizabeth Peters. How to describe Amelia? I suppose if one took Margaret Mead, turned her into a passionate Egyptologist, mixed in a generous dollop of Bea Authur at her overbearing best, added the dark seductiveness of pretty/plain Minnie Driver in Victorian dress, and then threw in a final ample helping of. Dr. Joyce Brothers, you would have a fair estimate of this intrepid jack-of-all-trades lady of the 1890s, who, parasol in one hand and pistol in the other, pursues the truth amid assorted nefarious doings. Whew! Along for the ride, though never quietly to be sure, is her passionate love, and husband, Emerson. The characters, the situations, the ambiance are all very droll, tongue in cheek-- seriously eccentric as only the British seem to be able to pull off with any degree of conviction.
Still, it wasn't easy in the beginning. I found myself having to stop frequently to give myself permission to simply relax and absorb the fun. Persisting, I discovered that pleasure has a flow to it. Left to itself it spreads, from the senses to the brain to the body. And as one relaxes and allows enjoyment to bubble up, odd recollections surface, capable of leading one down long forgotten paths of memory. As I smiled at Amelia's dealings with excitable Emerson, a distant whisper of familiarity began to run though my mind. I let it be until it came completely into view. Suddenly to my surprise I found myself in a turn of the century New York City brownstone surrounded by the Clarence Day family as wife Vinnie listened to her eternally baying at the moon husband Clarence. "Confound it Vinnie," yelled Father, emulating Emerson to perfection. "This is too much to be borne."
Suddenly, Amelia, Lavinnia, Clarence and Emerson joined together within me in a burst of joy. Though I stared at a page filled with the shadows of mummies, tombs and murders I was 10 again, sitting amidst a pile of old New Yorker Magazines and relishing the antics of quite another noisy rambunctious eccentric.
Encouraged, I hastened-- well, ambled might be a better word, for I am after all trying to be relaxed about all this, to my next challenge. It would seem a long long way from "Life With Father" and Amelia Peabody to Salman Rushdie. To be frank it is a long way for anyone with an overriding love of non-fiction to pick up any novel what so ever-- let alone an author of Rushdie's reputation. Still, a challenge is a challenge, and things did seem to be going well. So, acting on the recommendation of a friend, I squared my shoulders. I hied myself off to the library and checked out "The Moor's Last Sigh."
There are all kinds of magicians in the world. Rushdie is one who uses language. His words rush across the page in an orgy of passion-- strangely seductive and sensuous when describing even the most mundane situations.
Here I found another new experience to savor...feeling as though I were lying on my back in a swift flowing river letting both time and current carry me where they might--unaware of anything but the journey I had embarked on with this master story teller. The words rippled past in a voluptuous pattern resulting in an awareness of the land and characters with scarcely an adjective to break the spell. The pages breathed with life, and I found myself stopping frequently to reread passages, adrift in admiration, wondering how on earth Rushdie does what he does. Stunned, I marveled as he tossed words gleefully into the air, allowing them to land in wondrous, precise and magical order.
Amelia and the Day family had been fun. Exuberant even. Rushdie was something entirely different. I felt like a contented cat perched on a sunny windowsill watching a magnificent unknown world parade past in a kaleidoscope of swiftly shifting colors.
So what have I learned from all of this? The old saying "Never say never" probably sums it up best. As we get older there is a natural tendency to say "been there, done that" which is fine in and of itself, but which can, if allowed to solidity into habit, restrict us to old and comfortable paths and ways of thinking.
There are times when we need to break out of these old patterns; returning perhaps to old delights to discover that they can still transfix us--as with mysteries and the Day family. There are times when trying something new can open us up to new worlds, as happened with Rushdie. And, there are times, simply put, when we need to remember to lighten up and have as much fun as we can--watching out, of course, for toes as we skip along.
Now, if you will excuse me, Amelia is in dire straits, Father is bellowing that he wants a corner plot in the cemetery so he can get out easily should the need arise and Rushdie's "Midnight's Children" is beckoning. Thank heavens for traffic lights.
Amelia Peabody Mysteries by Elizabeth Peters
"The Moors last Sigh" by Salman Rushdie
"Life with Father" by Howard Lindsay, Russel Crouse,
Clarence Day
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