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| Pulp, Charles Bukowski |
There I was, applauding a key worker, but he didn't seem appreciative; in fact, he first looked mystified, then a little angry before finally keying the delivery details into his pad, turning and going back to his van.
I opened the gate to get my Amazon delivery, feeling disappointed in myself for not explaining to the man how grateful I was that he was still working. How genuine my applause was, rather than sarcastic, which I feel was his interpretation. I can't blame him. After all, although they are still lucky to have any employment, they are not so lucky as those of us being paid to work from home or better still, paid to do nothing because they cannot work from home. So they work, diligently steering their vans through the streets of London. That must be easier at least, the streets being less congested. They drive, they ring bells and drop packages. They deliver all manner of goods but what matters most to me is that they deliver my books, such as the most recent one, Celine's Journey To The End Of The Night.
Amazon, that commercial Goliath, despised by some for supposedly dubious treatment of workers and undeniable monopoly due to an unbeatable business model, must be a lifeline, of sorts, to millions during lockdown. DIY enthusiasts get their tools, crafting types get their materials...others simply get treats such as...perfume...and those of us enthralled by books get our fix!
I opened the gate to get my Amazon delivery, feeling disappointed in myself for not explaining to the man how grateful I was that he was still working. How genuine my applause was, rather than sarcastic, which I feel was his interpretation. I can't blame him. After all, although they are still lucky to have any employment, they are not so lucky as those of us being paid to work from home or better still, paid to do nothing because they cannot work from home. So they work, diligently steering their vans through the streets of London. That must be easier at least, the streets being less congested. They drive, they ring bells and drop packages. They deliver all manner of goods but what matters most to me is that they deliver my books, such as the most recent one, Celine's Journey To The End Of The Night.
Amazon, that commercial Goliath, despised by some for supposedly dubious treatment of workers and undeniable monopoly due to an unbeatable business model, must be a lifeline, of sorts, to millions during lockdown. DIY enthusiasts get their tools, crafting types get their materials...others simply get treats such as...perfume...and those of us enthralled by books get our fix!
Reading Celine's masterpiece again (I did read it many years ago but suspect I was not old enough to fully appreciate it and perhaps felt more compelled rather than naturally drawn towards it because in those days I was eager to impress not only friends but myself - "See, you read Celine! Well done!"). Now I read it differently? Have my eyes changed? Our minds do change, for sure. Not that we 'change our minds' so much, although that happens too, but our minds alter in ways enabling us to appreciate things better. Yes, the mind has undergone many things through experience. Realisation, knowledge, acceptance, fear, love...oh dear...I mean...yes, we experience all things as soon as we are able to comprehend...so what I mean is...how we process experience...is that it? Yes.
I am older...am I wiser? I like to think so. Today I call this book 'a masterpiece' having read many more books than when I was a teenager, naturally. Am I wise only in knowing what I like, or knowing what constitutes great literature? They are not the same thing...unless...one is a professional critic? Even then, oh it pains me to deal with this can of worms, we know that it is impossible to eradicate subjectivity! I'm a professional...nothing...human? Yes! I am a professional human. I do it for a living! We're all professional humans although, it must be said, some are more amateurish at it than others.
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