An Everywhere: a little book about reading, Heather Reyes

7/27/2019 An Everywhere: a little book about reading, Heather Reyes

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an

H E AT H E R R E Y E S

a little book about reading

a brilliant guide to the city of books I

love Heathers passion for reading andthe blend of erudition and intimacy

Helen Dunmore


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H E A H E R R E Y E S

An

EVERYWHERE

A LILE BOOKABOU READING

And so good morrow to our waking soulsWhich watch not one another out of fear,

For love all love of other sights controlsAnd makes one little room an everywhere.

John Donne

But above all, we read in defiance of our own mortality.Daniel Pennac

Oxygen Books


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Published by Oxygen Books Ltd. 2014

Copyright Heather Reyes 2014

All rights reserved.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system,

or transmitted in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in

writing of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or

cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition

including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

ISBN 978 0 9926364 0 1

ypeset in Garamond by Bookcraft Limited, Stroud, Gloucestershire.

Printed and bound in Great Britain by Henry Ling Ltd, Te Dorset Press,

Dorchester


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For my mother

and in memory of my father


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H E A H E R R E Y E S

Heather Reyes is the author of two novels, Zade

(published by Saqi Books and longlisted for the

2006 Prince Maurice Prize) and Miranda Road

(2014). She has edited nine anthologies of writingabout world cities for Oxygen Books city-pickseries.

Her short stories and articles have appeared in a wide

variety of publications, in the UK and USA, and she

is author of four illustrated books for children.

www.heatherreyes.co.uk

J K


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F O R E W O R D

Although this little book about reading was written

in the context of serious illness, it is hoped that

books rather than illness will be the main focus of

the readers attention.o avoid cluttering the text with the dates and

publication details of the books mentioned, these

can be found in the Selected Bibliography at the

end of the volume.

Deepest thanks to our wonderful NHS, as well as

to my loving, supportive family and friends aboveall to Malcolm, without whom ...

J K


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O N E

Books, like love, can make one little room an

everywhere.

I couldnt go out much for a while apart from

trips to the hospital. If the treatment went well, thiswould just be temporary, but I had some months of

near-incarceration to get through.

In the beginning the high doses of chemotherapy

affected my eyes so I couldnt see to read properly. All

I could do was lie on the bed and listen to chamber

music (too delicate for symphonic or jazz or world).Determined to direct my mind away from what was

going on in my body, I listened with more attention

than I had done for years, discovering small beau-

ties Id never noticed in familiar Beethoven quar-

tets, detecting extra humour in Satie, noting some

spine-tingling key changes in Bartok and at thesame time observing, with a laugh at myself, how

the mind could focus on such details, to the point of

preciousness, in its desperation to ignore the flesh

of which its a part.

But it was this experience of increased richness and

expansion to be got from reduced circumstances

J K


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AN EVERYWHERE

that saved me from or at least mitigated a good

deal of the anguish attending my suddenly changed

situation, and also helped me through the physical

difficulties. As soon as the chemo dose was lowered

to something nearer what my body could cope with,

I got my eyes back and began to read read as I

hadnt had time to for years.

So, in one respect, my new situation presenteditself as a luxury, an indulgence, an opportunity. In

my puritan-work-ethic family, anyone reading a

novel in the morning reading anythingapart from

the newspaper, briefly, over breakfast was morally

suspect. Even my mother, having discovered in her

eighties the joy of large print library books, onceconfessed with guilt-laden voice to sometimes reading

a little of her novel straight after breakfast. And at first

it did feel strange to be able to read whatever I wanted

not for teaching or writing or editing or research

all day long, picking about in world literature, classics,

recent publications on all kinds of topics, just as themood took me. And for the first time I thanked God

for Amazon. Ive always loved traditional bookshops:

I love handling books, I love browsing and the seren-

dipitous discoveries that often result. But my browsing

days would be on hold for a while. Id have to rely on

reviews, the recommendations of friends, and what

was already lurking, unread, on our bookshelves.


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ONE

My partner, Malcolm, was with me when I was given

the totally unexpected diagnosis the afternoon before

we were due to go to southern France for a late,

much-needed weeks holiday by the sea. I lay awake

and shook all night, the numbers 4 and 5 doing a

Witches Sabbath of a dance before my eyes: when

Id asked, that afternoon, How long have I got?, my

consultant had given a Gallic-style shrug and said,with bleak medical honesty, Four or five years

though he did add (perhaps noting how the blood

had rushed to my face or had drained totally from

it) but youre young. It could be longer. And

the nurse added, We do have a couple of people still

walking about ten or twelve years after diagnosis.But it was that initial Four or five that stuck. And,

dancing alongside those numbers were all the things

I wasnt going to see and do after all: unlike my own

parents, I wouldnt be in my grandchildrens gradua-

tion photos, their wedding photos wouldnt hold

my great-grandchildren. Wouldnt write all the booksId had plans for. Wouldnt travel with Malcolm to all

the places we still hadnt experienced together

But the nights anguish also produced what was

possibly a chemically-driven energy and determi-

nation to live as much and as intensely as possible

while I could and, despite not a minutes sleep, I

was up and ready for our 8 a.m. taxi. And I tried to


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AN EVERYWHERE

tell myself it wouldnt necessarily be the last time Id

board our beloved Eurostar to Paris.

Wed decided to stop overnight in Paris (a small, basic

hotel right next to the Sorbonne: from our bedroom

window we could see seminars in progress), giving

us a sun-drenched autumn afternoon to walk around

some of our favourite places. We had coffee amongthe fallen leaves in the Luxembourg Gardens and

picked up some books to get us through to our next

trip, we agreed, with determined optimism.

Our favourite Paris bookshops include the small

LArbre du voyageur on the rue Mouffetard (rather

cramped, but with high-quality, wonderfully-chosenstock and classical music played at just the right

volume) and the larger La Hune in Saint Germain.

And it was to La Hune that we went with a certain

sense of much-repeated ritual, of fondling a kind of

intellectual comfort blanket. In the heart of the Latin

Quarter, a few steps from the cafs Flore and DeuxMagots where Sartre, de Beauvoir et alused to go to

write and talk La Hune (which means crows nest:

I like to think of it as a nautical metaphor for the long

distances that can be seen through books) doesnt

have the supermarket feel that you get in some of the

big chains in Britain and the USA, of books as just

another consumer product and the stock combines


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breadth, depth, all the literature standards as well as

attention drawn to new publications.

Unsure whether the small Mediterranean town

of Collioure (our destination) would be well-

served with bookshops, and knowing our return

trip through Paris wouldnt allow time for buying

(and we didnt know how long my treatment would

keep us from travelling) we indulged ourselves moregenerously than usual. We could have bought the

same things in one of Londons French bookshops

(or ordered them from French Amazon), but it was

just nicerto buy them in Paris, even if it did mean

weighing our bags down with them for the rest of the

holiday. It was worth it. And anyway, we didnt reallyknow which books we wanted until we saw them.

Tose plain cream paper covers with nothing but

the title, author and, discreetly small, the name of

the publisher: theres something so proudly French

about them. Tey dont insult the reader. No attempt

to lure with a slick or arty illustration; assuming youwill know what you want to buy because youve

read the reviews or had the book recommended by

a friend, or that you already know the authors work

and will pounce on any new publication bearing

their name. Or perhaps that in itself is the lure:

intellectual flattery. And of course a number of them

bear a red paper band announcing a prize recently


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AN EVERYWHERE

won by the book or its author. Im a sucker for those

plain cream covers. Tat day I collected a small pile

of them then added some cheaper Livre de Poche-

style paperbacks with shiny, colourful covers.

Next morning, with our stash of books crammed

into our cases, guaranteeing multiple creasings in

the weeks clothes, we took an early taxi to the Garede Lyon and had time for breakfast on the station.

Great atmosphere. Te excitement of long-distance

travel and a misty-ish view down the platforms made

us think of Monets painting of the Gare dAusterlitz.

With difficulty I pushed down half a croissant and

only managed the coffee in sips. Te shock of thediagnosis had killed my all-too-healthy appetite

stone dead.

Ten the GV journey down through France.

I love trains. My one-time ambition of travelling

the entire length of the rans-Siberian Railway was

unlikely to be realised now, but Id make the most ofshort-range substitutes like the GV.

Between periods of gazing out of the window

and trying to catch the names of stations as we sped

through, I read one of the smallest books (right

size for lap-bag) bought the previous day Henri

royats Aliocha, a brief but moving and heavily

autobiographical novel (in fact the nearest thing to


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an autobiography he ever wrote) about the son of

Russian emigrs in Paris.

I knew Henri royat (he died in 2007, aged

ninety-five) from his biography of olstoy. Its very

long and Id never have got through it in French so I

am very grateful to Nancy Amphoux who undertook

the demanding task of translating it. Im ashamed to

say I havent read any of his other many biographiesof great Russian literary and historical figures and I

only knew one of his novels La Neige en deuil, an

unforgettable story of a plane crash in the Alps and of

the attempt of a tender-hearted but simple-minded

character to save the life of an Indian woman. (Subse-

quent and abiding terror of flying over the Alps: thepower of literature if you let it get to you.) But

Im interested in the lives of emigrs so am pleased

my bookshop browsing found meAliocha.

Aliochas parents and their Russian friends can

think only of returning to their old life in Russia.

Tey invest every small twist and turn of post-Revo-lution political events there with a significance that

supports their belief that such a return to the past

will be possible. But its a way of life that means

nothing to their children who want to be part of the

new culture in which they find themselves, looking

to the future rather than being anchored in the past,

loving as Aliocha does their new language, their


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AN EVERYWHERE

new country, and determined to be accepted as part

of it.

Although dealing with the specific immigrant situ-

ation of Russian exiles in Paris post-1917, Aliochas

experiences are probably shared by many children of

modern immigrants and refugees the older adults

anchored in their past and in another place, with a

set of customs they are anxious for their children toshare or which, in some cases, they attempt to

impose upon their children who wish to blend in

with and take advantage of their adoptive country

and culture. Te opposite can sometimes be true, of

course: some parents wish their children to be part of

the adopted culture while the children, feeling belea-guered in a sometimes unsympathetic host nation,

try to acquire a strong sense of group identity by

vigorously asserting their original culture. (Te issue

of the Islamic veil, particularly in France, is a case in

point.) More often however, adaptation is, for the

young, a matter of survival. Tey need to pull awayfrom their parents, just as the young in general need

to assert themselves against the culture and expec-

tations of their parents who grew up in a different

world and who often feel threatened by the challenge

of their childrens different values and propensities.

Aliocharaises such general issues even while seeming

to be about a young Russian boy in Paris just as


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any book worth reading speaks to its readers of more

than its surface subject and concerns, inviting them

to relate it to their life and experiences, provoking

comparisons, reflection, awareness.

Aliochaalso contains a story of the personal love,

and loss, of a close friend. It reminded me of Simone

de Beauvoirs loss of her close friend Zaza inMemoirs

of a Dutiful Daughter, and even more painfully ofBrnice, a much loved and admired friend of mine

whod died suddenly at the age of twenty-two. Even

if I only make sixty-six, I will have had her life-span

three times over, I told myself. But I wasnt yet ready

for the dubious comfort of rationality: it wasnt even

forty-eight hours since Id been given the diagnosis.I hadnt quite finished Aliocha when we had to

change trains at Perpignan, taking the little branch

line that goes through Collioure our destination

before it goes on over the nearby border into Spain.


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I have so much enjoyedAn Everywhere.It is a brilliant travel guide to

the city of books: the city we hold within us, and the one we share with

all its other citizens. I love Heathers passion for reading and the blend

of erudition and intimacy that she brings to the discussion of what

reading is and what books can do within a life. It is such a truthful book,honest about panic and anguish, and fascinating about what happens

when the panic ebbs and the reader continues. Helen Dunmore

During several months of treatment for a serious illness, the

writer decides to turn a necessary evil into an opportunity:

the luxury of reading whatever takes her fancy.

An Everywhere: a little book about readingis a quietly passionate

and witty defence of the joys and consolations of reading in

both the difficult and day-to-day aspects of our lives.

This is a gem of a book, one to read and re-read and to carry around like

a bible not just a guide to great literature but as a reminder that reading

is the highest form of religion. Heather ReyesAn Everywhere: a little book

about readingis a great example of that which it explores, books that can

take us anywhere and everywhere.An Everywhere is part good-read

guide, part travel guide, part memoir. Reyes writes with the imagination

and skill of the writer, the heart of a reader, the forbearance and wisdom

of the patient and the expertise of the well-travelled. Cheryl Moskowitz

oxygen books 8.99

www.oxygenbooks.co.uk

LITERATURE / LITERARY STUDIES

HEALTH / PERSONAL DEVELOPMENT

An Everywhere: a little book about reading, Heather Reyes

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