I've gotten back to reading Elizabeth Jane Howard's Slipstream. Now that I've returned to work I have the 'difficult task' of every morning choosing which books (yes, books) go into the bookbag I take with me. Slipstream is engrossing enough to read while I am at the gym after work. I can settle on a bike and lose myself in whatever she happens to be regaling me with at the moment and easily block out the noise from machines and radio. Not every book reads well under such circumstances, but Slipstream does and I am moving along now at a nice pace.
I'm still fascinated by EJH's life. Maybe hers sounds so exotic because my own is so mundane. She was an actress and model, she had men literally falling at her feet (though mostly she didn't want them to). She married young, to a naval officer and had a daughter, but by her own reckoning was naive and immature. It was ultimately an unhappy marriage, and she had affairs with a number of men during the war. After the war ended so did her marriage to Peter Scott, but not before a trip to New York City with him. She had been writing a book at the time and was introduced to the glitterati and literati of the city. What a contrast to war-torn London NYC must have been. And she described it so adeptly I could imagine it all.
So this was what I was reading at the gym last night. I was so caught up in her stories that I wasn't quite ready to put it aside and get back to Jacqueline Winspear's Among the Mad, which I have been reading on the bus and am nearly finished with. You see EJH has such an intimateand chatty (perhaps gossipy) writing style in her memoir it's easy to keep reading. Which is what I was doing as I stood waiting for the bus. The last few days there has been another lady waiting at the same stop as me, another university employee I assume. Tonight she saw me--nose stuck in book, totally engrossed, and commented "that must be a really good book". But wait. In the crook of my arm rests yet another book. Now, normally the common response of people to me and my books, is, well, no response. It's all the same I guess. A book, a bag of groceries, a backpack. Whatever. For a fleeting moment I thought perhaps I had come across a kindred soul--another reader. Could I share with her this wonderful book I was reading? Alas, no.
Shocked glance at the other book I happen to be carrying. "You're reading two books?" (Don't worry, I wasn't reading them at the same time!). Apparently in some circles being in possession of two books at once is not only unheard of but akin to, say, carrying around a two-headed chicken (or something equally unimaginable). She not only raised her eyebrows, but rolled her eyeballs--all at once. It was a remarkable sight. Am I that strange? I mean, I leave at 6:15 in the morning and don't get home until nearly 6:00 at night. There are so many nooks and crannies in the day that I can fill in with a little reading, and you know how I like to juggle my books. Needless to say, I didn't share with her that there was yet another book in my bag. That just might have pushed her right over the edge.