Roughghosts is twelve years old today. I debated whether or not I would officially mark this day with a post as I typically do, but have decided as the day nears an end, to say a few words anyhow. My immediate thought was to comment on the ongoing gnashing of teeth about the death of book reviews which always seems to go hand in hand with blaming the decline on book blogging. It seems to me that there are still book reviews of literary releases, including those in translation, that appear regularly on the pay-walled sites of arts and culture publications. Of course, I can’t afford to read them. There are also reviews posted on online journals and, yes, book blogs maintained by dedicated readers with a range of idiosyncratic interests, but those, especially the latter, never seem to count. However, it turns out that I already wrote about my frustrations on this matter and my own commitment to writing reviews on this day last year. You can read that here if you wish.
Over the past year I have noticed that I have been pulling away from much of the literary discourse on social media, such as it is these days, but it seems that such discourse has become less productive, supportive, and inspiring than it once was, which I think is, more than anything, reflective of the general sharpening of edges that has come to dominate our social, cultural and political spaces in this angry, polarized new reality. My personal social media feed tends to veer into the political—terrifying international conflicts and unsettling conditions closer to home alike, because I just can’t look away. Now mid-way through my sixties I never thought I would live in a world where democratic norms, international law, and basic human decency would be under such threat. My parents have both been gone for ten years this July, and as much as I miss them, hardly a day goes by that I don’t think about how glad I am that they did not live to see this new “normal.”
I am still reading (and acquiring) books as if time is not finite, and I get a great deal of satisfaction from editing the essays of others, but I have not written an essay of my own in years. In fact I find myself marvelling that anyone has the ability to write or create at all anymore. I know that dark times have never stifled the creative spirit in the past, but it does feel sometimes like I am trying to keep a candle lit in a windstorm.
So I will seek a sheltered space and keep the company of good books in the meantime.
roughghosts 