Just finished a wonderful short story (they’re all I have time for lately) called The New Man by Luis Loayza, a Peruvian writer. I haven’t been able to find out much about him, but at some point he was a translator for the United Nations in Geneva. I’m trying to track down some of his collections, but I think they’re almost all in Spanish, and those would take me forever to read.
Strange, in college I used to take such a critical approach to reading. I’ve distanced myself from that, which feels like I’ve distanced myself from serious thought. I don’t read to parse through and create new ideas, I read, like most of us, for simple pleasure. One particular downside of that is that I rarely remember for long what I have read. Once I had wanted to be able to summon passages and quotations from works famous and obscure, but I no longer have anyone to impress. I’m worried that this also means I no longer have any ideas to follow or believe in. Reality has without my knowing it become day to day, and there are no large future landscapes to dream of inhabiting. Blogging is a symptom and cause of this — it’s time spent summing up the days, hoping that down the road someone might detect a theme in this cotidian chatter.