Night/Day

Tori Amos is being interviewed on WFUV as I write this, talking about a song called Parasol, based on a famous painting. She's talking about the subtle controls that happen in relationships that are only seen and felt behind closed doors. The character in the song wishes to be the character in the painting, because if she existed in a painting, she would be safe from being controlled.

Tonight in Barnes and Noble, I noticed that a reading was about to start. I missed hearing who it was, but was drawn in by the introductory words and reading of the author. There was something beautiful about the author and the way she was reading and what she was reading. There was one striking piece about a father who was estranged from his son imagining how he would have, if he could have, taught his son to swim.

He would have told his son that the son was once a fish and so he knows how to swim. And that he knows this (he would answer when the son asked "how do you know?") because he was once a fish too. And he would tell his son that it would be OK when he let go because he would remember how he swam when he was a fish. And he would gently let go, and his son would swim. And then he thinks about it, how he would teach his son to swim without him, which really meant that he would teach him to live without him. And then he thinks, maybe that's what it means to be a father - to teach your son to live without you.

Before she started reading, this author said that the impetus of the book was her thoughts about how many people is it worth writing a book for? What if only one person reads it? Five hundred isn't considered a lot for book sales, but to be in a room with five hundred people is to be with a lot of people. (And to be in a room with one person is a thing as well, she was implying.) I couldn't hear too well, I was still back in the poetry section. But I started to get pulled in. I missed some of the words, but got the gist of the story she told of a reading she once did, when only two people showed up, and neither bought the book.

After the reading, someone asked how she plotted out the various pieces of the book. And she spoke about having a good sense of direction and how when she arrives in a place, she feels like she's watching the place from an aerial view, as she gets a sense of where she's going. And she had that kind of an aerial feeling with the book.

Then someone asked if she was an artist, if she drew, because there seemed something in her writing that intonated that she painted or drew. The author was excited by this question, said it was an original, good question that she's probably never be asked again. She said that she's always leaned towards art, but only dabbled in it when younger and still hopes to one day get good at it. She also said that there are tiny drawings in the book, done by a friend, and that she likes the idea of having her friend's presence in the book.

After the questions a line formed for the signing. I now knew the author's identity because I overheard someone whisper it to someone else in awe. (But I'll not tell you yet.) I bought the book. As I waited on line, I noticed that the author related to each person before she signed. She had a little chat, asked if they were the person it was being dedicated to. Often, they spoke first. When it came to my turn, she said hi and asked how I was doing. I asked her if she could wish me success in my writing in what she wrote. So, she asked if I was a novelist. And, I said, "no, just a blogger." And she asked, "just?" And I said that I always write, write in a diary too, and I produced my diary from my pocket.

She wrote, "For Neil - With Luck + Hope, and signed it with her name, Nicole Krauss. Then she wished me well and gave me a sweet goodbye wave. I was reminded a bit of when a friend of mine met Nathan Englander a few years ago at a book reading that she ran and for some reason (jealousy?) didn't want to like him, but in the end found d him to be very nice.

I found Nicole to be more than nice, she struck me as a very special person. And from what I've read about the book, and what I heard her read tonight, it sounds like a unique, great book. Not since The Curious Incident Of The Dog In The Night Time have reviews of a book so intrigued me. In that case, when I read the book I liked it as much as I hoped I would. Maybe, it will be that way again with The History of Love. In any case, the memory of this evening will remain a meaningful one.