Perhaps you are like me and always have a book. It is physical, the ledge we look over to the other, the real, world. And it is metaphysical, intertwining with our own existence, characters and plotlines merging from the page to the street, the office, the bedroom. Oh, it gets muddled. A tortured, drunken sleep, where one wonders if the conversation, the gaze, the regret was real; or did I dream it, did I read it.
Amedeo Oliva always has a book. He took it to the beach. The book became every book, a constantly changing kaleidoscope, a picture carousel. He’d look up over that ledge, see the rocks, the greenish-blue water, the oblique dash of a crab. But they were only peeks. He looks down, always looks down, as the carousel turns, and Raskolnikov counts the steps that separate him from the old woman’s door; turns again, and Lucien de Rubempré gazes at the towers and roofs of the Conciergerie before sticking his head into the noose; turns again, and a cannonball falls at the feet of Prince Andrei; turns again, to a shop filled with engravings and statues where Frédéric Moreau, his heart in his mouth, was to meet the Arnoux family.
Amedeo peeks again. A woman languishes on an air mattress, rolling down the twin pieces of her swimsuit to catch the sun. She waves, asks for a light for her cigarette. She does not move away when he touches her. Amedeo enters the water, troubled. And it turns again. How will this end? He obsesses. What will be the outcome with Albertine? Would Marcel find her again or not?
Such is a day at the beach in The Adventure of a Reader. There are other Adventures here: of a Soldier; of a Bather; of a Clerk; of a Photographer; of a Traveler; of a Nearsighted Man; of a Poet. Twenty-eight stories in all, very simply told, like fables. There are stories of War and what happens after War. We walk through mine fields, and are taken as a partisan back to headquarters. A German soldier tries to take one animal after another from the Animal Woods. I have him in the sights of a rifle, and I am a very bad shot. It is relatively easy to break in to commit A Theft in a Pastry Shop; harder to leave.
Looking up and looking down. What parts were real? I would like to think I would have put the book down when the other bathers left, unlike Amedeo, who made love to the woman in the cove while holding a finger in his ever-turning book, so he wouldn’t lose his place. But perhaps you are like me, and never really put the book down.