in a December bleakness, seeing writing finished as a thriving, important force in our modern lives. More trouble than it’s worth. And then a few pages steal in front of my eyes and I’m smitten again, stopped in my tracks by the scenes and visions of another mind, empathy in ink. Books are subtle seducers, they undermine any world or word-weariness. But they disappoint too, you won’t find the answers there, just doorways to other mysteries, other books. Better never to have opened the covers, was Wolf Larsen’s lament, watching his more ferocious and untainted-by-literacy bro, Death Larsen, bearing down on his ship. Death was too busy living to be leafing. But when I do come across a page that’s tender and intelligent and true, I get that shot of life, the seconds of raw glee when the world seems right and spinning correctly and not cruel and futile. Books have lost the clamour and fanfare of the Press and what’s left of the arts establishment, writers aren’t admired and envied as rising stars and beat heroes the way they were when I was a kid. But there are fine voices making it to print, hidden away in quiet places, unpraised and unpaid. They flame to words because the voice comes out, not for money or a spread in a magazine. And if your heart needs the books, you’ll still find them, wandering pilgrims on the plain.
