by Morgan on January 3, 2011
In that great New Yearsy tradition of painstakingly reevaluating one’s time and self-management, I have an addendum to yesterday’s post about expression and intent.
While searching for interesting responses to the New York Times Review of Books’ feature, Why Criticism Matters, I landed on Beatrice, and was, thankfully, reminded about Merlin Mann’s fantastic essay Better.
This was exactly what I needed to read today, not only because it reminds me to be more intellectually rigorous in my output, but also because, by extension, it suggests that it’s equally important to pay the same respect to input. For me, this can only mean one thing: go back to the book. I’ll admit that I’ve spent entire days devouring book reviews, reading blogs, critical essays et al. without once picking up an actual book. And that’s unacceptable, because much as I wish to participate in the sphere of discourse you see to the right of this page, under DAILIES, what is most vital to my edification as a reader is the reading of books. Not essays about books or essays about essays about books or essays about books of essays. Books.
I suppose I have an appropriately modern conundrum: how to stay relevant and up-to-the-minute, while the content about which I wish to stay relevant requires hours of sustained isolation and disconnectedness, every single day.
Oh well, I am certain it’s the books that matter.
The irony, of course, is that I only happened upon this “repiphany” after three hours of trolling literary web blogs. Motherfuck.