There are books that we skim over happily, forgetting one page as we turn to the next; others that we read reverently, without daring to agree or disagree; others that offer more information and preclude our commentary; others still that, because we have loved them so long and so dearly, we can repeat, word by word, since we know them, in the truest sense, by heart. (p. ix)
A Reading Diary: A Year of Favourite Books by Alberto Manguel documents a twelve month period where, each month, Manguel commits to rereading one of his favourite books and recording his thoughts on it. Of the twelve titles that Manguel reacquaints himself with there were those I was familiar with (Kim, The Sign of Four, The Wind in the Willows), those I knew by reputation (The Island of Dr. Moreau, Don Quixote, Surfacing) and those I had never heard of before in my life (The Invention of Morel, The Posthumous Memoirs of Brás Cubas). Not being familiar with a title in no way impaired my enjoyment of reading about it though. Even if the experience did not make me eager to read the book itself, it was still fascinating to hear of it and to read of the thoughts and emotions in elicited from Manguel. Indeed, it is the very randomness of his thoughts, the graceful and yet careless way he careens from one topic to another, than makes Manguel so very readable. The joy of reading something by some so educated, so cultured and yet so accessible really cannot be overstated.
Like the best reading diaries, this small volume is eclectic and occasionally disjointed, bouncing from one fascinating tidbit (which is by no means guaranteed to have anything whatsoever to do with the book being discussed) to another. Manguel quotes widely and freely from poets I have never heard of, performs his own translations from German, Spanish, and French, and shares with us conversations held with learned friends – discussions, for example, with Rohinton Mistry on Kim (…he finds Kipling’s dialogue, and the descriptions of the vast troupe of Indian characters, absolutely true to life. P. 48) and Margaret Atwood on Robert Frost (Once Atwood said to me that Robert Frost’s line ‘The land was ours before we were the land’s’ has no meaning in Canada. P. 217). How not to be fascinated by a man with such a circle? Particularly fascinating for me, as many of the authors he seems on good terms with are, like Manguel, Canadian writers, whatever their origins might have been.
What A Reading Diary does better than most books of its kind is to capture the true reading experience – as with my own reading diaries, very little has to do with the actual book Manguel is reading, consisting mostly of the endless quotes he is reminded of, themes that lead him to other books and authors. Tangents, spreading outwards in all direction, entwining vine-like around new ideas that must be explored, must be discussed. To have such a memory, to be able to make these links unaided – it is a very special gift and one I am in awe of.
And when Manguel does direct his thoughts to the books themselves, they are fond ones. After all, this is an adventure in rereading – a journey where the goal is pleasure and enjoyment. There is no need for harsh analysis here, as Manguel’s thoughts on Kim reveal:
Kim is one of the few books that constantly delights me: it grows friendlier with each reading. I want to apply to it a word used in Quebec to denote a particular state of happiness: heureuseté. I love the tone of the telling, the vividness of every minor character, the moving friendship between the lama in search of a river and the boy in search of himself. I never want their pilgrimage to end. (p. 46)
I think my greatest take-away from this reading experience is that I adore the way Manguel writes. It is beautiful. At times funny, at times thought-provoking, his prose is always gorgeous and makes me eager to read more of his works (A Reader on Reading has been on my TBR list for some time now but will clearly be bumped up in priority now). I found myself reading passages aloud to an empty room just to glory in how they flowed so perfectly together. It’s a simple style, clear and elegant, and I could not be more pleased by it.
As I read, I scribbled down countless passages in my own reading diary, ranging from the humourous to the profound or nostalgic:
I will sleep one night in the library to make the space totally mine. C. says that this is equivalent to a dog peeing in the corners. P. 25
Spent yesterday rearranging the detective fiction. We’ve put it up in the guest bedroom, now to be known as the Murder Room. P.98
We read what we want to read, not what the author wrote. P. 52
I recall the physical pleasure of coming to the end of my book and then daydreaming about the characters (if I liked them) for many days after, imaging their ongoing lives and other endings. Now it seems impossible to find such periods of long calm. P. 157
And, finally, the quote that sums up my own experience as a reader:
It seems to me that as I read I am taking notes, without knowing it, for what I will one day experience, or what I once experienced but failed to understand. P. 247
Is that not the perfect sentiment?
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The Captive Reader 