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The reader who still experiences
"the youthful pleasure of expectation" in reading makes
way for the text, goes with its flow and strives to be imaginatively all
that the text invites. This is the reader reading for enjoyment, for escape,
for pleasure, for absorption, for all that the work has to give. Without
reading experiences like this, would there be anything else to say about
reading?
Italo Calvino talks directly to this
reader in his work, If
on a winter's night a traveler .
Read the following excerpt from the start of his wonderful novel to see
if you don't agree:
You are about to begin reading
Italo Calvino's new novel, If on a winter's night a traveler. Relax.
Concentrate. Dispel every other thought. Let the world around you
fade. Best to close the door; the TV is always on in the next room.
Tell the others right away, "No, I don't want to watch TV!"
Raise your voice--they won't hear you otherwise--"I'm reading!
I don't want to be disturbed!" Maybe they haven't heard you,
with all that racket; speak louder, yell; "I'm beginning to read
Italo Calvino's new novel!" Or if you prefer, don't say anything;
just hope they'll leave you alone.
Find the most comfortable position:
seated, stretched out, curled up, or lying flat. Flat on your back,
on your side, on your stomach. In an easy chair, on the sofa, in the
rocker, the deck chair, on the hassock. In the hammock, if you have
a hammock. On top of your bed, of course, or in the bed. You can even
stand on your hands, head down, in the yoga position. With the book
upside down, naturally.
Of course, the ideal position
for reading is something you can never find. In the old days they
used to read standing up, at a lectern. People were accustomed to
standing on their feet, without moving. They rested like that when
they were tired of horseback riding. Nobody ever thought of reading
on horseback; and yet now, the idea of sitting in the saddle, the
book propped against the horse's mane, or maybe tied to the horse's
ear with a special harness, seems attractive to you. With your feet
in the stirrups, you should feel quite comfortable for reading; having
your feet up is the first condition for enjoying a read.
Well, what are you waiting for?
Stretch your legs, go ahead and put your feet on a cushion, or two
cushions, on the arms of the sofa, on the wings of the chair, on the
coffee table, on the desk, on the piano, on the globe. Take your shoes
off first. If you want to, put your feet up; if not, put them back.
Now don't stand there with your shoes in one hand and the book in
the other.
Adjust the light so you won't
strain your eyes. Do it now, because once you're absorbed in reading
there will be no budging you. Make sure the page isn't in shadow,
a clotting of black letters on a gray background, uniform as a pack
of mice; but be careful that the light cast on it isn't too strong,
doesn't glare on the cruel white of the paper gnawing at the shadows
of the letters as in a southern noonday. Try to foresee now everything
that might make you interrupt your reading. Cigarettes within reach,
if you smoke, and the ashtray. Anything else? Do you have to pee?
All right, you know best.
It's not that you expect anything
in particular from this particular book. You're the sort of person
who, on principle, no longer expects anything of anything. There are
plenty, younger than you or less young, who live in the expectation
of extraordinary experiences: from books, from people, from journeys,
from events, from what tomorrow has in store. But not you. You know
that the best you can expect is to avoid the worst. This is the conclusion
you have reached, in your personal life and also in general matters,
even international affairs. What about books? Well, precisely because
you have denied it in every other field, you believe you may still
grant yourself legitimately this youthful pleasure of expectation
in a carefully circumscribed area like the field of books, where you
can be lucky or unlucky, but the risk of disappointment isn't serious.
(The entire
first chapter of the book is available online here.
The link is to a wonderful site devoted to Italo Calvino's work.
Outside the
Town of Malbork http://www.msu.edu/~comertod/calvino.htm)
Calvino packs into this description
many details all of us recognize, those of us who understand that the
first reading strategy is to get comfortable, to make space and time
for this act. We have our favorite places and favorite ambient experiences
for reading. I, for one, love to read while traveling. I can read in a
moving car, on a plane, in a train. And then again on a bus, waiting on
the dock for the ship to unload before it loads again, and in just about
anything else that moves, or does not move quickly enough. I have never
read on horseback, however.
And once we have read it, once we
have sat back in pleasure and said, "I love this book!" What
then? We want to share it; we want to understand it better; we want to
add to the experience. Here are things we sometimes do as well:
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