There is no shortage of good days. It is good lives that are hard to come by. A life of good days lived in the senses is not enough. The life of sensation is the life of greed; it requires more and more. The life of the spirit requires less and less; time is ample and its passage sweet. Who would call a day spent reading a good day? But a life spent reading -- that is a good life.
As I understand it, Jack Benny had always dreamed of being a virtuoso violinist and could play reasonably well, but because he knew he had no genius for playing, and as a result was rather heartbroken, he would pretend to be terrible at playing and do so for laughs. Obliquely related, when our kids first started school full time and I, as a stay-at-home-mom, was floundering for something to do, my husband said, "You love to read and you have all this free time, why not write a book?" I was slightly aghast, and if I had had a copy of The Writing Life at the time, I could have jabbed my finger onto any page and said, "This is why not, and this, and this".
At one point in The Writing Life, Annie Dillard bemoans the commercialization of book writing and the trend to try and write books for people who don't like to read-- today I think this would be books like Fifty Shades Of Grey (which, although I haven't read it, I will unfairly state that anyone could have written it) and Twilight (which I read at the insistence of a teenage daughter, and will state that just about anyone could have written it). These are not works of genius, and were certainly not written for book lovers, but I suppose they got nonreaders reading. So is that such a bad thing? It doesn't affect me that these books exist, but it does sadden me a little that if I tried to write a book it would by necessity be such a crass attempt at a commercial venture, as I know I don't have the spark of genius in me. Just as I could dribble paint on a canvas and not be Jackson Pollack, I could churn out words on a page and never be Annie Dillard.
Why are we reading, if not in hope of beauty laid bare, life heightened and its deepest mystery probed? Can the writer isolate and vivify all in experience that most deeply engages our intellects and our hearts? Can the writer renew our hope for literary forms? Why are we reading if not in hope that the writer will magnify and dramatize our days, will illuminate and inspire us with wisdom, courage, and the possibility of meaningfulness, and will press upon our minds the deepest mysteries, so that we may feel again their majesty and power? What do we ever know that is higher than that power which, from time to time, seizes our lives, and reveals us startlingly to ourselves as creatures set down here bewildered? Why does death so catch us by surprise, and why love? We still and always want waking.This is why I read, and as sadly as Jack Benny with his violin, why I will never write. There are many beautiful passages and insightful observations in The Writing Life, and if nothing else, will prompt me to explore Annie Dillard's books (forewarned that they can be dense and difficult, and hopefully, written for one, like me, who loves to read).
