It began in college. I suppose it was all because I didn’t anticipate finishing. Who would have known that I would end up pursuing a Ph.D.? But since I began with the idea of quitting in mind, I felt freer. Not bound by the rules of traditional undergraduate pursuits, to wit: taking all my lower division classes first and then upper divisions during my last two years. And yes, I did only take four years to complete my undergraduate degree.
I digress. Entering as an English Major (I loved the movie Room with a View), I thought, hey, I can take all kinds of great classes. “Novels in Film,” and “Contemporary English Classics” sounded promising. Nothing like “Introduction to English Literature, Part I, II, and III” to be taken consecutively (obviously) and with the end in mind of completely deadening any creative impetus, much less enthusiasm for English-language novels.
The aforesaid “Contemporary English Classics” proved especially entertaining, while “Novels in Film” was a complete dud: we kept reading things like Marguerite Duras (FYI: she’s not English) and Franz Kafka in celluloid. I think that professor was in the wrong field: Comparative Lit seemed more his speed. But the former class was a great success, not the least of which reason was because it was taught by a visiting prof from Northwestern who was the spitting image of an Oompa Loompa, circa Gene Wilder 1970’s—no the newer one is creepy and what is it about Johnny Depp and oodles of makeup?
She taught writers like E.M. Forster and John Fowles with introductions like, “He was a political prescient who wrote about situations which would always come to pass.” How can you go wrong with teaser like that? Which was a good thing since I would always do a tour of all the English class assigned books before I actually decided to keep a class or not. And of course, pick up a few dozen other interesting reads along the way. I mean, you may only be able to handle sixteen units per quarter (and trust me, if you’re reading a book a week per class, this really is the limit), but no one says you can’t also shop around for suggestions from all the other tantalizing titles out there. Classes like “Sex and the British Novel” with lots and lots of Jane Austen tomes (to evidently point out all the sex that wasn’t happening). And because I hadn’t heard of many of these authors, being only a tender 18, her presentation and appearance were a definite selling point.
Then there was her frankness. We were reading The Sea, The Sea by Iris Murdoch and she warned us of the protagonist’s solipsism and its tendency to make one want to drink. Indeed, she confessed, if not outright suggested, that the proper way for her to read Charles’ narration was after having imbibed a certain quantity of beer, after having first thrown the book across the room.
This seemed like an excellent idea. The beer, I mean. She did warn that she was not, strictly speaking, advocating an alcoholic approach to critical reading, but on the other hand, if one was of age and many of the students were, it might not be a bad way to ease into the book.
Well, I was entranced. Both by the book and the teacher. She was absolutely spot-on, for enthusiasm and unwitting humour all at once.
As for the suggestion of the beer, I found I didn’t need it. Plus, I didn’t drink. I was a good girl and didn’t imbibe until I was officially of age. Well, perhaps once, but I was just shy of twenty-one.
The lesson, however, stuck. Add to that my penchant for baths. My dream is a whirlpool bathtub. Ironically, when I moved into my current abode, it had one. Except it didn’t work. How fitting.
Candles I find are a superfluous addition to the bath experience. So liable to fall, plop!, annoyingly into the tub and splash (this is the most annoying potential flaw) the book. All my books are in pristine condition and I do not like the idea of a series of splash marks that have marred the perfect flatness of a page. Especially if it’s a first edition, but even if it’s a paperback. They all look brand new, my books. But a beer. Not wine, no. The buzz is different, and so are the tastes. A beer, preferably some wheaty, pungent beer like Franziskaner Hefe-Weisse or some such thing. Actually, there was one when I was lodging with a local Physics prof that was made by a micro-brewery that soon went out of business. He drank my last six-pack. I forgave him because he and his wife let me use their sunken whirlpool bathtub.
The bath is also key and it must entail some sort of bubbles. I used to enjoy Archipelago Botanicals because they made this amazing floral scent, Enfleurage, in a Bubble which lasted hours and hours. Alas, alas, it is now no longer part of their bath line.
So a good book preferably a paperback for ease of handling, a wheaty beer chilled quite cold, and a bubbly bath (I know use Lush bubble bars) makes a perfect date. With myself.
When I drove up and down the coast preparing for my Master’s exams, I would stop off in the Central Coast. I had chosen the ideal location: right on the beach, free bubbly with the room, and a bathtub. A great little—though now quite large—barbecue and burger joint down the street. A little food and then into the tub with a glass of champers, which in a pinch is as good as a beer. And some book. Julian Barnes or Pat Barker. Steaming slowly in a scented tub, I simply cannot think of anything better.
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