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Dubliners on the train.
Feb. 11th, 2008 10:13 pm"Is that book any good?" she asks.
I need to take off my headphones to contemplate that question, and the person asking it. She's a young student travelling from Ghent to somewhere. I don't know what typ she is. I stopped catalogueing students when I stopped being one myself some five years ago. Her interest in my book &ndash: Dubliners by James Joyce – makes me suppose a major in Germanic languages. Her frantic scribbling in the notebook on her knee says strong interest in philosophy and other disciplines of the mind.
"The book's okay," I say, "It's a collection of short stories. Very descriptive."
"I had an exam on Dubliners recently. Had to know all about the book, but never came round to actually reading it. I was just wondering whether it's any good at all."
"Ah," I say. I put my headphones back on and try to concentrate on Eveline. She keeps up her frantic scripture. I can't help to wonder what she's writing. Having been a diary-writer for many years, I have never really written so rushed and trancelike. Too self-conscious, I can't help but think someone is reading along over my shoulder when I write in a public space. Me trying to decipher the girl's handwriting from the corner of my eye, reminded me of reading along with another girl sitting next to me on the bus, texting away to her friend. I could read her message word for word and wonder why in hell she chose to misspell certain words in French in such a way that they were in fact longer and took up more characters of her message.
I need to take off my headphones to contemplate that question, and the person asking it. She's a young student travelling from Ghent to somewhere. I don't know what typ she is. I stopped catalogueing students when I stopped being one myself some five years ago. Her interest in my book &ndash: Dubliners by James Joyce – makes me suppose a major in Germanic languages. Her frantic scribbling in the notebook on her knee says strong interest in philosophy and other disciplines of the mind.
"The book's okay," I say, "It's a collection of short stories. Very descriptive."
"I had an exam on Dubliners recently. Had to know all about the book, but never came round to actually reading it. I was just wondering whether it's any good at all."
"Ah," I say. I put my headphones back on and try to concentrate on Eveline. She keeps up her frantic scripture. I can't help to wonder what she's writing. Having been a diary-writer for many years, I have never really written so rushed and trancelike. Too self-conscious, I can't help but think someone is reading along over my shoulder when I write in a public space. Me trying to decipher the girl's handwriting from the corner of my eye, reminded me of reading along with another girl sitting next to me on the bus, texting away to her friend. I could read her message word for word and wonder why in hell she chose to misspell certain words in French in such a way that they were in fact longer and took up more characters of her message.
