This year, if I keep my pace,
I’ll read over 100 books.
I don’t know if this is a victory
or a sad state of affairs.
I don’t know if I am in love
with the world or addicted
to distraction. Preachers and
politicians used to call novels
filthy and frivolous, wanted
us to read only stripped facts
and sermons on virtue. Now,
we’re pleased if children read
at all. Everywhere you look
screens hold miniature stories,
trapdoors and tunnels toward
truth and illusion. Last week,
I asked a 24-year-old which
candidate will win the youth
vote for president. Biden is
ridiculous, she explains: all
those gaffes-turned-memes.
Trump, she decides. He’s funnier.
Funny? I ask. He has wittier
insults. He says what we all wish
we could say. Democrats are
schoolmarms, then? I ask.
Mothers who make you feel
ashamed? What about the danger
to our democracy? Low wages /
high rents. It’s all the same to us.
We need more facts and tracts
on virtues. We need novels, too,
about civil wars and WWII,
about loss and love and grief
and trees, anything to help us
feel, in our bones, what it is
we have to lose. Actually, she says,
face lighting, RFK is trending
on TikTok. His policies are crazy,
I say. He’s doing pull ups, she says.
He looks strong. People like that.
