August 14, 2003
A long commute on the bus gives me several hours guaranteed reading time every day. I love it. Sometimes I'm lucky enough to read something that so overwhelms me that I forget myself: I moan in extasy at a particular turn of phrase, laugh out loud, quietly read passages under my breath. Some time later I become aware of fellow passengers' sidelong glances, and it dawns on me that I'm the crazy guy on the bus.
Which isn't all bad. At least no one will sit next to me.
Storm Constantine used to have this effect (Burying the Shadow is wonderful) until she got all weird and sex-magic crazed. Right now, pride of place belongs to Michael Ondaatje's Anil's Ghost. An absolute gem. I've been reading bits of it aloud to Owen, who quietly lays against my chest, listening. Considering that his usual reaction to a book is to crawl frantically toward it, chew on the binding, then coo as he flips through the pages, his calm appreciation for Ondaatje's prose speaks for itself.
But I'm still the crazy guy on the bus.
