Wherein our hero decides to undertake a large book

A year ago I ordered A Distant Mirror, Barbara Tuchman’s epic non-fiction account of the “calamitous 14th century.” A few days later the 600-page paper brick arrived from an anonymous Amazon used book monger. I felt I had made a mistake. I rarely read non-fiction or gigantic books – and this was both. So I decided not to read it.

It sat on my shelf for ten months. First I ignored it: it was a foolish, impulsive purchase. Then I rationalized it: I didn’t have time for a huge commitment, and, besides, I knew nothing about the 1300s. I’d be lost reading it an probably wouldn’t enjoy it.

But there it sat, quiet, non-judging, waiting to be read. A few months ago, I finally fell to it’s guilt-inducing existence and began reading it. Here I discovered not the boring, uninspiring textbook recital of events and corresponding dates that I expected, but a gripping account of humanity from the beginning of the first big plague to France’s humiliating conquest during the Hundred Year’s war.

As I blew through the first few hundred pages, I became enthralled with the story of the book’s central figure, Enguerrand de Coucy, whose incredible experiences touched every aspect of life in the late-middle ages. I was obsessed with learning about the needless death and conflict caused by the ignorance of pre-Renaissance Europe. I couldn’t put the book down; that is, until I approached the end.

Pages flew by until I reached the late four-hundreds. I knew from the beginning that the book’s narrative would end when Coucy’s life did and he was aging fast. I sensed the end was near and I didn’t want it to stop. I imposed a ten-page maximum for each sitting to draw the book out. Seven pages from the end, I put the book down and refused to finish. I had become emotionally invested. It was an old friend to whom I didn’t want to say goodbye, and, if I didn’t finish it, I would never have to.

It had been a long time since I felt this way about a book. For most of my adult life I had been reading as quickly as possible. I felt the urgent need to finish one book so I could jump to the next. I only have so much time on this earth and I wanted to consume as many books as humanly possible. Being well-read, to me, was determined by pure mileage – pages under the belt.

I’d burn through a book and, before the cover was even closed, I had picked up yet another short read, only to forget the previous book’s ancillary characters’ names, central plot, and, ultimately, point. Gigantic books would only get in the way. A poor habit and a sad way to appreciate art.

When I stopped reading, Coucy was on the verge of death in a foreign prison, crippled with age and battle wounds. An ignominious end for such a figure, I thought, so I forced myself to finish Tuchman’s book and let the old man die with dignity.

I was left with ambiguous feelings of satisfaction and disappointment; the former from her magical ability to present historical facts with ease and beauty, the latter for never again being able to feel the sense of wonder and new discovery that comes with reading such a great book for the first time. I was in mourning.

I missed that emotional engagement that Mirror gave me so much that I decided I needed to reproduce it. So I am embarking on a new quest – the much heralded, oft referenced, and rarely read The Ingenious Hidalgo Don Quixote of La Mancha by Miguel Cervantes. Another huge book and, I hope, another deep emotional engagement.

In the vein of Mirror‘s subject of the end of an age, Don Quixote concerns an old man’s obsession with the past and recreating chivalry, a romantic ideal that had, by his time, passed from the world. His is a futile attempt at trying to reclaim something lost. Now here is something I can relate to.

1. Wouldn’t a book called Meditations On Data Entry by Tai Ping be hilarious?
2. Wouldn’t another book called How to File by Al Fibette be even funnier?
3. I’m on a role. How about Preparing Printed Works by Cole Aiting?
4. I could make millions off of this series of office-related humour bo…
5. Damn; hit enter instead of tab-enter. Have to redo that entry.
6. Jesus, I need to get out of here.

But I’ve got a job!

I find television to be very educating.  Every time somebody turns on the set, I go in the other room and read a book.  -Groucho Marx

I ran to it like a man dying of thirst. Here, finally, was a chance to peer into the mind of the Kinkos target demographic. The books on the narrow rack fell into three categories: get rich quick, self-help books, and how-to’s on dealing with irrational coworkers. My eyes first fell on “The Insider’s Guide to Making Money in Real Estate; an ill-timed edition to be sure. Next to that was a lone copy of Working with You Is Killing Me: Freeing Yourself from Emotional Traps at Work, a guide to surviving crazy bosses. Hidden around the back was the dangerously optimistic Developing the Leader Within You. The rest were all about improving yourself and the emotional and/or financial state common to the soul-crushing life.

What struck me most about the books was that they just seemed to be randomly placed there; as if this little oasis of self-help in the sterile gray speckle carpeted desert of productivity had come about organically. There weren’t more than two copies of any book and most of them were well-worn. It was as if some psychological victim of the corporate life had sneaked in here and surreptitiously installed a book swap center, a little ray of sunshine in the crippling monotony of the dull-fluorescent, dry walled life. But who could get in here unless he had a key?

I was absorbed in the image of the stealthy, stifled corporate revolutionary when the Fedex-Kinkos worker at the counter snapped me out of my reverie. My pictures, required for my application to graduate school in Cairo, were ready.

“Here you go,” he said, handing them to me in the glossy faux-passport.

“But I still need to pay,” I said.

“Don’t worry about it,” he said, and walked away.