There are distinct times, when the world is grey and drizzly, a slight chill in the air that creates a day of inner wants. Moments of selfishness that are required for self preservation. It is on these days that a book becomes the sacred object near the heart. To find that soft spot in the house, and curl up with: to find that safe haven. Anne Fadiman's At Large And At Small is the type of book you would want to let in.
A collection of essays that plays at the edges of those who find reading central to their being. Not just the manufactured collection of words, but the simple production of words by people. Even those we can find in letters. Her father's day "had not truly begun" until the post arrived. "[T]o many tame citizens like me the morning mail functions as the voice of the unpredictable and keeps alive for a few minutes a day the keen sense of the unplanned and the unplannable" he would write. I agree.
The essays vary from the personal youthful endeavors of collecting nature and discovering the literary connection with author Nabokov to the dichotomous delight of discovering the owl and lark in some relationships. The ones who have not attained the level of awakening until the wee hours of the morning, and those who find the same at the moments of light, the minute of creation.
Without looking I purchased this volume, knowing already that author and reader, me, had a connection. Her earlier work, Ex Libris, was full of bookish wanderings and wonderings. But I suspect that I am of a minority. Bookishness is not a seller, which is possibly why I found At Large and At Small in the remainder bin. But I like discovery, if only under my own terms. Tweaked on something I like, I allow myself to wander through a collection of essays, not all of them hitting the mark for me, knowing that something will be appealing. And yet, stumbling in full light of day, on something I hadn't considered. For this is the experience of becoming aware.
#0900
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