The radiant reading experience

When it comes to the immersive pleasure they afford, TV shows and films pale in comparison to books. Wielding the power of words to leave strangers mesmerised is a writer’s biggest achievement

Last year I’d read the least number of books. I struggled with finishing the books I had begun. When I did immerse myself in Hisham Matar’s A Month in Siena, which I bought during my trip to Napoli in October, I felt awe and envy at the tenderness and emotional depth the author weaves into the act of looking at art, how effortlessly he seemed to convey the political nature of his gaze. In a way, it prompted me to finish my own book, which had been sitting in that cardboard box. Once I sent the relevant emails to publishers, I felt a sense of unhinged relief; a lightness that I had forgotten about. Something akin to when you immerse yourself in spring cleaning for a few days, even a week, and then, when it’s done, you feel a satisfaction that is hard to convey. Because your apartment is not just superficially tidy; it is organised from within, in an intestinal way, if that makes sense. You have unclogged dusty ducts, you have deep-cleaned layers of oil near the kitchen ceiling, you have attended to the nooks and crannies that are otherwise abandoned. A calmness takes over and you feel like you can think again, breathe again, live again, as if you have created space for many more little joys to accrue.

That’s how I’ve been feeling these days. I’ve been walking on air, and despite the sagging tiredness that is a feature of the final trimester, I feel rejuvenated. Early this week I spent time ordering a fresh set of books to read, titles either recommended by others or those that have been on my wish list for a while. It is a small luxury to be able to not convert European book prices into rupees; something that kept me off buying new literary purchases when I first moved here. It is incredible how much cheaper it is to buy books in India, even if you have to import them via Amazon. Over here, an average book costs between 15 to 20 Euros. But given the paucity of English-language bookstores or bookstores that even host a shelf with books in English, I end up relying on pirate libraries for my intellectual resources. As a lecturer at the university, I am lucky to have access to the in-house library as well as an exhaustive range of online resources. But I belong to that generation of millennials that still prefers the materiality of a physical book. I chose not to buy on Amazon, because this year is dedicated to making as many consciously anti-capitalist decisions as is logistically possible. It means my wait time is more than a week, but I get to revel in the sense of anticipation.

Last weekend, I sought out the copy of Emily Wilson’s translation of The Odyssey I had been meaning to read. I began with the introduction, but then something sort of magical happened. My mother-in-law had asked me to get a recommendation from the local librarian about new thrillers or crime novels. I misunderstood her brief and got her two detective novels written in the 1990s by an author who had recently been profiled by a leading newspaper—Donna Leon. The American writer had, since the early ’90s, begun a series of novels set in Venice revolving around an Italian detective named Guido Brunetti. They became extremely popular among German readers… there was even a TV production in German that adapted several of the books. I had this vague memory of the feature I had read about Leon last year as she was getting ready to release her latest title (she typically releases one book each year, usually before July, in time for the European holidays). The library in Tramin seemed to have her whole oeuvre. I picked up Acqua Alta and another one for my mother-in-law, but learned, later, that she had read almost all of Leon’s books. Curiosity got the better of me, and instead of returning the books, I decided to hold on to Acqua Alta and give the German translation a go. So what if I didn’t understand every sentence, perhaps the context would provide clues and I might be able to improve my vocabulary.

I began reading the book in German around Monday and I breezed through the first two chapters. The writing felt so immersive, I felt like I was in the apartment with the soprano singer, and I could hear her chopping vegetables while singing an aria. I loved the sense of detail and the slowness of the pace, how the ‘action’ was sliced into small bits so you had to consume it slowly and it seemed to unfold in your imagination with a vividness that you simply do not encounter anymore given how technology has altered our sense of motion. I’m reading a chapter every alternate day and I’ve kept The Odyssey aside for the moment. The idea that I have reached a stage where I can access literature in another language is so humbling and exciting. One of the books I ordered is the Italian version of Italo Calvino’s Italian Folktales. I had forgotten how wonderful it is to be mesmerised by a book, and how the pleasure you derive from reading is on a different level than from viewing a Netflix series or a film. It’s also why I felt such a high when the Italian translator I sent my book to wrote back within 24 hours to tell me how it was ‘fantastic at every level’. As a writer, to be able to administer that degree of immersive pleasure to someone you’ve never met, is the biggest achievement!

Deliberating on the life and times of every woman, Rosalyn D’Mello is a reputable art critic and the author of A Handbook For My Lover. She tweets @RosaParx
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The views expressed in this column are the individual’s and don’t represent those of the paper.

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