The book meme - tagged

The delightful Noorster has tagged me with a meme:

Number of books I own:

There are some 750 books in my apartment in Stuttgart, plus a further (roughly estimated) 400 in an attic in east London, plus maybe another 100 in Toronto. I sold or gave away a few hundred when coming to Stuttgart.

Reading style:

Reading for fun or amusement takes place in (or lying on) my bed, with a cup of tea (or campari & soda) at hand. (I bought a second set of dictionaries for the bedroom because I got tired of getting up to look up words.) Reading for work (or particularly challenging books) takes place at my desk, for ease of access to other reference material. Light reading (Martha Grimes, Donna Leon, the Father Browns) is done at the kitchen table, or on the balcony in good weather.

Last book(s) I bought:

I haven't bought many books this year, but have become a regular visitor at the central library downtown. Most of the few books that I did buy, came from the second-hand stalls at the regular Saturday flea market on the Karlsplatz. A little attentive searching there can turn up wonders:

Henry Miller, Big Sur, und die Orangen des Hieronymus Bosch

just for the lovely dust jacket. Well, no, there's more to it than that. I used to be a great fan of Miller in university days, being much impressed by the Tropics and Clichy, and was curious to see whether his world would still appeal.

Rainer Maria Rilke, Gedichte

a fine bound edition from 1966, elegantly typeset on creamy-smooth thin paper. "Wer, wenn ich schriee, hörte mich aus der Engel Ordnungen?" I shall have to write sometime about learning German. None of this "Dick and Jane" crap: My first texts were poetry, Rilke and Wolf Wondratschek, in a cheap hotel in Montmartre. We started at the deep end, and I swam.

Julian Opie (exhibition catalogue)

I really like his style: landscapes reduced to planes of colour (from a very reduced palette). Some of the paintings look like background scenery from South Park, but others are quite evocative.

Last book I read:

Salman Rushdie, Fury

Book(s) I am reading now:

Michel de Montaigne, Essaies

Martha Grimes, The Blue Last

Five six books that mean a lot to me:

Very tricky indeed. What does "mean a lot" actually mean? I think it means that I think often about the book, that I take it as a touchstone for situations that I find myself in, or that it often comes unbidden to mind.

The Bible

Don't panic, I'm not a Born Again, nor will I ever be one; I'm not even a believing Christian. But the Bible, particularly the Old Testament, does fit the criteria I named. It is a significant part of my mental baggage, one of the filters through which I see the world.

Lawrence Durrell, The Alexandria Quartet

in particular the first volume Justine. If there's a better depiction than this of the glory and misery of love, and the trouble we cause ourselves by not being satisfied with Enough, then I would like to hear about it. (I also owe Durrell a debt of gratitude for introducing me to the Alexandrian poet C.P.Cavafy who is quoted extensively throughout the Quartet.)

John Fowles, The Magus

Eleutheria! This is (among other things) an inquiry into the place of moral philosophy in an amoral world; like the Alexandria Quartet it illustrates that while many things may be True, there is no (singular, absolute) Truth - except that we must make our own and hold ourselves to it.

Italo Calvino, Invisible Cities

which opened my eyes to the poetry of cities. I have owned and given away at least a dozen copies of this book since discovering it in my first semester as an architecture student, and although I haven't had a copy now for probably fifteen years I still know most of it by heart.

F. Scott Fitzgerald, The Great Gatsby

for the sheer, limpid, poetry of it: every word sits well, none is superfluous or disharmonious (except where disharmony is sought, e.g. the names of Gatsby's guests). To get the full effect, have someone read it aloud to you on a summer evening.

Joseph Conrad, Heart of Darkness

Like Gatsby, a magnificent piece of writing: the words flow like the river, gentle and inexorable. The narrator Marlowe becomes a vivid personality, although Conrad never describes him and he says next to nothing about himself.

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Who's next at bat? I would love to tag Philip, since he's an author himself, but he's at the beach with his beasties for a fortnight. Let's have Sass, Late Edition and Heather. (And anyone else who wishes to! tag yourselves and post me a comment.)