Monday, August 27, 2007

There’s a giant ledger somewhere, I imagine, that tracks exactly how much raw intelligence may be doled out to the populace at any given time, and it’s a finite commodity. For every Albert Einstein, for every Oscar Wilde, there is counterbalance, namely us. And yet, I don’t believe you need to invent the theory of relamativity or wear a pair of fucking pantaloons to at least appear smart. Santa and my favorite argumentation prof were both right, I believe: all you need is a list, specifically a list of thoughts. Small soapboxes. Conversations.

I’m not referring to a physical list here, mind you, because anybody who’s obsessive enough to chronicle the day’s discussions probably also needs to touch every tile in the house before going to bed. It’s more a mental list, one crafted to stick because the items on it genuinely interest you. Firming up the list is simply a matter of having thought that thought before, or having had that conversation previously, and how and when you employ this list–uniquely, ironically, unexpectedly–is what impresses.

Reading has slyly yoked itself to my time recently. I’m intent on making the most of it. The last good run was a Pulitzer prizewinner binge, a productive streak cut short by American Pastoral, and lately there’s been an aborted attempt at The Rules of Work, followed by honest-to-goodness completion of The Alchemist. Well, no more. No more self-help books. No more profound books. I’m done with books that theorize greatness or parabolize it. I want it recounted to me, and to this end I’d like to pick up Mark Twain’s autobiography. There’s challenge #1: actually going to the bookstore.