At this hour, I am deeply envious of the woman in the painting. Night is slowly descending and the light in my loft is of the same haziness as the boudoir in Hermann Fenner-Behmer's work. Perhaps she is reading by a slowly awakening light, in the morning's dawning, but I like to think that she is enjoying the languorous waning of a day that is passing into memory. The leavings on the table could be of any meal; I choose to make them the remains of an evening's repast. I, too, have tea nearby.Yet, while I remain mistress of my clothing, I am missing the key accessory of that engrossed reader, a book.
I have adhered faithfully to the outlines of this challenge:no books for the entire month of March, except for research purposes. No novels,no autobiographies, no enticing histories of anything, no poetry.I have been busy, and this very busyness, while exhausting, is what made the first two weeks fly by, what made the lack far less trying, or noticeable, than it would have been ordinarily.
I missed, initially, the book that I was then reading. I had been visiting the world contained within its pages, gathering its story to me at odd moments throughout each day, for a few weeks, intentionally lengthening the process. It was Charlotte Bronte's "Villette"; approximately one-third remains, waiting to be picked up again when the Challenge has ended.
The real sense of loss has been appearing in the last few days, pricking me for a few seconds before scuttling off again. Reading is not just a past-time, an addiction or an addendum to my character. So many things, vast and subtle, are caught up in the coils of this pleasure. I never realized, fully, how sensual an experience words are, for me, nor how many other vital enjoyments are joined to the act of reading.
Tea, fragrant steam rising off of eddying milk,housed within a familiar cup, rests on its saucer at my elbow. Too hot to bring to my lips, it cools as I read. Engrossed in the book, I forget about the liquid, I forget about everything but the words before me, the words and the scenes and emotions those words evoke. I forget about the tea until it has nearly become too cold for its purpose, catching it to my lips immediately before it is a waste, when its warmth is just right, downing it in three long gulps, Goldilocks-like.
I am sinking into bathwater; indulgently hot water, no bubbles, a few candles, and a book.Magazines are cumbersome and flimsy-only a book serves to pass the time,about an hour's worth if the water temperature stays elevated. A glass of wine, red, resting on the tub's edge between sips, aids my warmth, from the inside. Drops, light as mist, scatter onto a page or two. When dry, they are lightly raised, as braille.
Face-down on my bed, reposed comfortably as the woman in the painting, I am half-covered with a sheet, foot tapping, turning the pages of a book--spending the final moments of the evening on words, sentences and thought.Drowsily stretching, I fall asleep mid-paragraph;my curling fingers mark the page. I awake, slowly, to painful rays of light ,and the book with its freshly crumpled edges.
I am deeply envious of the woman in the painting.She is in full command of her simple pleasures: a book, a pot of tea, and the evening's dying light.
Painting:Der Bucherwurm, Hermann Fenner-Behmer (1906).
This is one of my very favorites! The dark blue font, while hard for my wee eyes to read, was a good choice because I had to read slowly, and was thus able to savor every word.
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