Last Friday I glanced in the reflection of the night-dark BART window to notice that of ten statistical standers holding on to overhead steadying bars, nine were gazing down at some glowing electronic gadget—iPods and iPads, Droids, Kindles. The tenth was maybe looking at a book, or nothing.
This Friday (I take BART on Fridays) I was heartened to notice, of an undisclosed actual number of fellow commuters, at least seven were reading actual books. What’s more, they had relatively good taste. Cervantes, Bradbury, a French conversation guide. An Anthony Bourdain, which my mom assures me is a fun read.
|Anthony Bourdain, smug as ever|
My BART reads have been sporadic, partly because of my motion sickness, partly because I’m still learning to navigate the system. A bit of Borges (finished, related post forthcoming), some Said (rereading C & I after a blow-through in my Master’s exams semester); forcing my way through Rousseau, Mill (the long-deads, as they shall henceforth be known).
|Jean-Jacques, smug as ever|
I wonder what my commute books say about me. I know I’m judging you based on yours. (Bradbury = nerd, Cervantes = college student, French conversation lady = going to France, has a bit of a bank account.)
More on that (judging people) later.
Also a quick promo note: I'm in the process of adding tons of bookstores to my Book Places section. My dream is to one day have a Yelp-like website just for book people. For now, I have an amateurishly-maintained simple Blogger page with iPhone photos. Check it out.