Hot damn, I wish there were a book club that met and sat discussing not the titles on the New York Times Bestseller List, but the classics such as I’ve laden down the bookshelves with in my home.
It’s useless, even with reading once and twice and thrice to come up with all the variations of one like Borges for example. There’s nothing like the interaction of a class discussion where the highbrow, common sense, fantastical and simply dopey meet on a single plane and slice the text into dermis layers fit for microscopes. Then and there you see the geometric patterns and whorls and legs waving hairlike from a single cell becoming something deadly or something exquisite in itself.
Online research after the readings does help somewhat in understanding. But live bodies and working minds are needed for the enjoyment.
So maybe that’s where I’m headed: to form a small group of interested souls.
The Lost Children: A Charity Anthology