I don't read books while walking as a rule. Only very rarely, something I've done recently when I picked up a book, very slim, by an author I have quite warmed up to in the last couple of years. I can't read the same author back to back even if they are one of my favorites. But I keep them on my radar.
So I thought it was time to see if a new title by Amélie Nothomb had showed up on my San Francisco Public Library's fiction shelf or not. There I found Thirst, detailing the time Jesus is condemned to be crucified to the point he actually is. In her unique, irreverent yet cold humor style, it's a brilliant book and I found myself reading it while traversing long blocks until the next traffic light. I'd begin once I'd crossed the road.
Last Wednesday, as I got off from work, I remembered to visit the Farmers' Market in the shadow of the library. I opened the book and began reading while ambling on Hyde Street, the backside of the library facing the market. From the corner of my eye, I noticed an approaching man slowing down and then stopping. I became cautious, gave a quick look to his Asian looking face, his short, slim, lanky body and tried to find the line I had left midsentence due to the uninvited intrusion. But finding the man non-threatening, I also realized he might have been looking at the book, curious to know what I was reading. This sort of thing used to be common when the cafe culture was (more) alive. That used to be San Francisco. But no more. I decided to show him the front cover.
"It's a great book. I have read it," he said excitedly.
I said something in a concurring manner, adding I have read her other works also.
"I have too . . . I have read everything by her. The one that takes place in Japan."
"Fear and Trembling and Tokyo Fiancée," I said.
"Yes, very good!"
"And the really weird one Strike Your Heart," I offered as a bonus.
He nodded fervently, incanting yeah, yeah, yeah!
He was grinning uncontrollably now. I felt a rare joy at being stopped by someone who was willing to connect via literature. I bowed gently, signaling I had to go and buy spikey bitter melons, red and white onions, and fuji apples. He nodded and, smiling, moved on. If I were younger I might have exchanged phone numbers to have coffee. After all, that was how I met one of my closest friends Jeff White, and then through him John Smalley, in 1986 or 87 discovering a mutual passion for foreign cinema and women straight out of Godard's films. But I was much older now and with limited energy. If I see him again, I'll be sure to say hello, ask if he's seen Kiarostami's cinema, read Toomer's Cane or Rulfo's Pedro Paramo, and also find out what he's been reading lately.
Last Wednesday, as I got off from work, I remembered to visit the Farmers' Market in the shadow of the library. I opened the book and began reading while ambling on Hyde Street, the backside of the library facing the market. From the corner of my eye, I noticed an approaching man slowing down and then stopping. I became cautious, gave a quick look to his Asian looking face, his short, slim, lanky body and tried to find the line I had left midsentence due to the uninvited intrusion. But finding the man non-threatening, I also realized he might have been looking at the book, curious to know what I was reading. This sort of thing used to be common when the cafe culture was (more) alive. That used to be San Francisco. But no more. I decided to show him the front cover.
"It's a great book. I have read it," he said excitedly.
I said something in a concurring manner, adding I have read her other works also.
"I have too . . . I have read everything by her. The one that takes place in Japan."
"Fear and Trembling and Tokyo Fiancée," I said.
"Yes, very good!"
"And the really weird one Strike Your Heart," I offered as a bonus.
He nodded fervently, incanting yeah, yeah, yeah!
He was grinning uncontrollably now. I felt a rare joy at being stopped by someone who was willing to connect via literature. I bowed gently, signaling I had to go and buy spikey bitter melons, red and white onions, and fuji apples. He nodded and, smiling, moved on. If I were younger I might have exchanged phone numbers to have coffee. After all, that was how I met one of my closest friends Jeff White, and then through him John Smalley, in 1986 or 87 discovering a mutual passion for foreign cinema and women straight out of Godard's films. But I was much older now and with limited energy. If I see him again, I'll be sure to say hello, ask if he's seen Kiarostami's cinema, read Toomer's Cane or Rulfo's Pedro Paramo, and also find out what he's been reading lately.
Call it a friendship in the time of covid!
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