Always Carry A Book
Take a car. It’ll be easier than taking public transport. Okay, so it costs money. Cheaper than a taxi, right? Ride-sharing. What could go wrong? You work hard. You deserve it. Going from West to East takes forever on the train. Take a car.
I called a car.
What was that burbling noise? I could hear it, but I couldn’t find it. Definitely from around me, somewhere in the back seat of this hire-car.
“That guy’s dreaming!” the driver said, gesturing emphatically at the car three ahead, who’s not moving off fast enough now that the turn arrow has lit up. Oh. He’s angry.
A mini rosary hangs from the rear-view mirror, weighed down by a crucifix that mirrors the one on the box that sits on the dashboard. I don’t know what’s in it. Looks like you could fit a book in it. A hardcover Bible? Or maybe it’s someone’s ashes. I hope it’s not someone’s ashes.
The driver pounds the steering wheel, clearly trying not to swear at all the terrible, horrible, not very good cars on the road. I try to remain calm. He gives up trying. He swears at the other cars, in a dialect I understand but don’t speak very well. Something about doing unspeakable things to the malodorous parts of their drivers’ mothers’ anatomy.
I look straight ahead. Then I notice it. The in-car display set into the dashboard reads “bamboo water fountain”, track three of an album titled “meditation sounds”. That explains the burbling noise. Speakers are probably behind the rear seats. Clearly the meditation sounds don’t work. Clearly.
The box might hold the ashes of his last passenger. This guy weaves from lane to lane at speed with the casual disregard of someone who’s lived quite long enough. I haven’t - you can inscribe “wasn’t ready to go” on my tombstone - although it’s not like I have enough unfinished business to stay behind when it’s time to go. So I haven’t watched The Last of Us, or Evil, or the latest season of The Boys. I’m not gonna be a ghost for television.
I might become a ghost against my will, if this guy keeps up. I wonder if this is him after the meditation, if listening to the constant burble of a bamboo water fountain is what keeps him on an even keel … and if this is it. I try to focus on the sound, ignore the blaring horns that punctuate the lane changes, close my eyes, ignore the blurred view through the windows.
More swearing. Less sexual, this time. Just violence. The solution to people’s bad driving on the expressway might be to kill them. Sounds like it might work. I don’t object to it in principle. I hope he doesn’t realise that he’s at the wheel of a fast-moving death machine. The principle I’m sticking to is that I don’t want to die.
Could have taken a train. Stood for twenty minutes, then got off the train, walked to the other platform, wait for another train, and then straight to my destination. Less chance of dying. But more uncomfortable.
Gonna die for comfort. That will be on my tombstone. They’ll find me in the wreckage, amongst the twisted metal. In the background, softly … burbling. I don’t know if anyone will notice.
Last resort time. Good thing I have an escape portal with me. Today, (among other things) it contains William Gibson’s Neuromancer. Seminal cyberpunk novel (although not the first), published July 1, 1984. Stunning first sentence: “The sky above the port was the colour of television, tuned to a dead channel.”
The rest is just as good, if not better. Forty years on, and the book is still good. I click the button on the back of my e-reader, and then suddenly I’m there. The honking and the speeding and the cursing provide the appropriate background for the gritty streets in Gibson’s cyberpunk adventure. I can almost pretend that I’m in a self-driving car.
When I look up, we’re sliding into the driveway of the shopping mall that I picked as my destination. I made it, of course. But next time, I’ll take the train.
It’s like this person just discovered empathy but hasn’t figured out to extend it to anyone who isn’t within five years of their own age.
Reading matter
The NYT Book Review Is Everything Book Criticism Shouldn't Be. Eloquent indictment of the NYT Review, which also outlines what the writer thinks book criticism should be. I agree that writing about books should engage more deeply with the process of getting a book published and getting it before the eyes of readers. Reading the NYT, it often seems like books spring into existence sans effort on the part of writers … and the reviews foreground a certain class of writer, from a small group of publishers. Are those reviews written for a certain group of readers?
That became more evident when The New York Times, courting controversy and attention (clicks equal love, right?), came up with a list of the 100 Best Books of the 21st Century. Look at the books on the list, look at how they’re ranked, and see what that says about who the list-makers are (or who they’re targeting). You can even (if you have a subscription to NYT) see some of the ballots: basically select writerly folk were asked to name their top ten books of the century. (Gift link)
Three Thoughts on the NYT Top 100: Missing Millennials, Fading Autofiction, the Genre-Bending Era. Lincoln Michaels, in his Counter Craft newsletter, has his own thoughts on the list - including positing some trends and making some observations about what’s not included.
House of the Dragon: If dragons were real, how would fire-breathing work? Not the first article on this topic, but the first one I’ve seen in a non-genre publication.