SA¹ú¼Ê´«Ã½

and have been asking if we have reached a reading apocalypse, a post-literate era, the end of the age of reading.

I am pleased to report that I have not gone over to the Dark Side. I love to read. I do not own a television or pay for streaming services, I’m not on social media, and I live two blocks from a branch of the public library that will find and deliver books from all over the city. Best of all, my colleague Michael loves reading, and he recommends excellent books. We both arrived at SA¹ú¼Ê´«Ã½ in the fall of 2010, and our office doors in St. Joseph’s Hall face each other. One quiet morning a few years ago, I barged in to tell him about the incredible book I was reading, Paul Murray’s Skippy Dies. As the title announces, Skippy dies, and I knew Michael would tolerate my effusions as I explained how late I’d stayed up reading, trying to reach a passage that did not cause my heart to race. When I finished the book, I gave it to Michael, who returned it with a handwritten note. What a treat. Never mind that no one reads anymore. Who writes by hand? 

In the fall of 2024, I read Richard Powers’s Playground and desperately wanted to discuss the book. I asked Michael to read it, and he agreed, but he decided he needed to read all of Powers’s books in order first. Powers has written nine novels, many of them enormous. How long would I have to wait? Michael is a speedy reader, but he reads multiple books at once, and my urgency did not hurry him. I gave up, reread the book, confirmed my suspicions, and switched to asking him for recommendations. We both adore and regularly reread Donna Tartt’s The Goldfinch and agree that Sally Rooney’s Intermezzo is amazing. He suggested The Ministry of Time, a witty and wonderful book, and the brief and compelling Loved and Missed, which I savored. Then he suggested a 496-page book that I won’t name because it ends “To be continued.” He hadn’t warned me. He got an earful after that. 

Last fall, he handed me a copy of Andrea Gibson’s Gibson had died over the summer, and Michael had taken an interest in their writing. I thanked him for the book, but when I flipped through the pages, my heart sank. Poetry is hard, and I didn’t want to fail to understand. I set the book on my file cabinet and then piled holiday cards and tax documents and a painting project on top. Once or twice, I pulled it out and had another look, then tucked it back in the stack. Finally, this spring, when I had finished a novel and my hold request had not arrived at the library, I retrieved the book and vowed to read one poem. Lucky for me, Gibson put the best poem first, In the prickly embrace of menopause, I’m more likely to win for hot flashes than goosebumps, but I devoured the poem’s delights. 

I saw the signs.

I kept reading. 

My dad died several years ago after a long illness. To motivate her to get moving again, my mom adopted an ornery little one-eyed rescue dog named Nella. She adored my mom and barked at everyone and everything else. When we visited, I would sit at the island in the kitchen reading and drinking my tea. Nella would come padding out of the bedroom, her nails clicking on the wood, and walk right past me without noticing. She’d circle the island, finally see me, and start yapping. Sadly, Nella died just before Christmas, and my mom, now 83, has been struggling with loneliness. When she had a small stroke and ended up in the hospital, a caseworker suggested that she adopt a cat. I asked if maybe Mom could borrow one of my sister’s cats to see how that goes. My sister agreed to lend Ginny, a Covid rescue cat named for the Harry Potter character, who explored the house, sniffed everything, went under the bed, and didn’t come out. Not quite the companion we were hoping for, but she grew up in a house with two dogs and five cats and has learned to explore at night. The next morning, my mom woke to find Ginny on the bed with her, ready for attention. Andrea Gibson captures this kind of moment in the poem:

The biggest dog in the shelter
hiding behind a teacup chihuahua,
and the woman who came to adopt a cat
taking all three of them home:
        1,012 goosebumps.

Perhaps I would not have feared Gibson’s poetry if I had remembered Mary Oliver. I share Oliver’s poem “Sometimes” with my students, the most important lesson I teach:

4. 
   Instructions for living a life:
   Pay attention.
   Be astonished.
   Tell about it.

Gibson’s poetry tells about it and leaves me astonished.

In “Homesick: A Plea for Our Planet,” Gibson writes,

Do you know
sometimes when gathering nectar, bees fall asleep
in flowers? Do you know fish are so sensitive
snowflakes sound like fireworks when they land

on the water? Do you know sea otters hold hands
when they sleep so they don’t drift apart?

I knew about the bees and the sea otters, but sometimes I require a reminder. I hope fish like fireworks.

The poem continues,

We need so much less than we take.
We owe so much more than we give.
Squirrels plant thousands of trees every year

just from forgetting where they left
their acorns.

Did I mention menopause? I wonder what grows from all I have forgotten.

I read Patrick McDonnell’s Daily Mutts cartoon via email. The message from July 20th included this proclamation:

What is poetry if not joyful rebellion? The writer takes sorrow and worry and wonder and squishes them into a shape that satisfies. The poet pokes and twists and sprinkles the words with glitter, and we get goosebumps. And then we share the words with a friend across the hall.