Reading ruined me

Author: Lisa Schwarz
Translator: Li Si / Country: United States
Publisher:
Publish Date: 2000-01-01
Features: Besides chatting, playing croquet, and the gate, the other joy of that house was the icebox. The ice delivery man would arrive in the kitchen with a huge tongs carrying a large block of ice, leaving a trail of sparkling ice shards along the dim hallway. Grandmother often opened the icebox door wide at such times. Sometimes, the ice delivery man would place another block of ice on the sidewalk, and then I would join the other children on the street, rubbing the slippery ice edges with our hands, watching them melt where we touched. In the summer, we would gather around the ice block, hoping to absorb its coolness. Small pieces of ice would fall from the block, and we would catch them and hold them in our palms. After the ice block was moved away, a circle of sparkling ice shards would be left on the street, like pearls scattered in a treasure store, but most of the time, it was just a small puddle of water, reminding people of how magnificent the ice block had been in its original place.
One day, just as the disappearance of the "Little Boy in Blue" came without warning, someone came to move the icebox. They placed a small, shiny refrigerator in the spot where the icebox used to be. All my aunts and uncles came to celebrate that Grandmother had finally entered the modern world she should have enjoyed long ago, her eyes shining with pride as she vigorously wiped the inside with a rag and stuffed it with a mountain of food. But what about the ice delivery man and the ice block? What happened to them? There would no longer be warm hands to smooth out the ice, or the sudden shout, "Wait, the ice delivery man! Let the ice delivery man go first!" when you rushed downstairs.
Later, I heard of a very famous play called "The Ice Delivery Man Is Here," and I was very eager to see it just to capture some of the lost glory of the old icebox. When my wish was finally fulfilled at the age of 17, who could I tell about my disappointment? Just a group of pretentious men sitting in a low-end bar, drunk. That was all. There was no ice delivery man, and no icebox. The title was borrowed from a lowbrow joke and later became a terrible metaphor. That was just a little bit of nostalgia. I don’t know whether those two babies who could have been my cousins and later died without explanation died like the Little Boy in Blue or suddenly fell ill, like Annabel Lee. It wasn’t until decades later that I learned about their short lives from scattered words here and there. Death is a story left untold, a sorrow unpraised by language. No wonder I love reading—I find, luxuriously, everything hidden in life. For some reason, I must know something about the Little Boy in Blue. Why do I suffer for those toys? They wait for a child who will never come, their dignity nothing more than a mixture of loyalty and ignorance. My sympathy is all for them. The poem turns in that direction, making the boy a traitor, a turncoat, and the toys abandoning their victims. The tilt is what makes it no longer a fixed point of sorrowful tears. We are guided to stand with the toys, avoiding standing with the boy. But our sense of security is just an illusion, like the poem correcting itself in our minds, leaving us with a sense of unease. Even today, the disappearance of the Little Boy in Blue is still shocking. He didn’t even tremble. He was completely consumed by his desire to return to the second morning of his dream journey: "Now, before I leave, none of you should go," he said to the toys, "And don’t make a sound!" But in the end, it was he who remained silent forever.
We learned long ago that people are born and die, from hints to evidence. The Little Boy in Blue bet on that secret, just as some works trade on sex or cruelty. Anything that touches the unspeakable with tempting methods and presents the benefits of loud words can make us permanent hostages, like the clever witches in myths who capture the innocent with their lack of experience. The shelves hold true mysteries, not just metaphysical ones. Among these mystery stories, I liked Earl Stanley Gardner, Perry Mason, Hamilton Berg, Paul Drake, and Della Street the most—all those suffering secretaries. Even then, I noticed something missing, a self, long before they became shadows on television screens, as I imagined their detailed plots in my mind. I read the vivid and ruthless "Ellery Queen Mystery Magazine," which arrived every month. My father said his uncle Dan was actually acquainted with Ellery Queen himself, and I was greatly surprised to hear this. (Thus, the implication of "Annabel Lee" is real: you can meet people in books, or meet them afterward.)
Also, Ellery Queen was not one person but two, neither of whom used that very noticeable name. They were not detectives but merely partners in their writing business. Uncle Dan, who knew them, spoke with them, and visited them—it was truly extraordinary, the kind of thing that happens in a Manhattan apartment. But if someone knows a writer (here, two writers), it must be Uncle Dan, because he is surrounded by a worldly aura. He wears extremely expensive clothes, drives very flashy luxury cars, eats at upscale restaurants, seems to know the waiters there, and is happy to sign checks without being married. He was married at first, but his wife died of a mysterious illness, so although he is middle-aged, he still occasionally takes women out—he is the kind of woman we often see at upscale restaurants. Their lifestyles are similar to his, though sometimes they are mothers, widows, or divorced women, unlike the mothers I know—not the plump, devoted mothers who wear aprons and bustle about the kitchen, imagining what kind of person their daughters will become. I myself never thought of becoming one of those apron-wearing women, nor did I want to be lazy. While reading, I might have thought that perhaps there were other kinds of people I could be. But before I became any of them, a problem arose—a big, unanswered question. Though confusing, though half-aware, I believe I accepted that I was the kind of person my parents described or defined me as becoming. After all, they were my parents. They must know, right? They devoted most of their lives to determining and defining their three children. They observed accurately and then made a mistake, forcing their observations into a pre-made mold: for example, I read a lot of books and did well in school, so I was labeled a "intellectual," or worse, I was actually an "intellectual." "Intellectual" is not a compliment. My father called my two second cousins "intellectuals," with a tone of mockery. I could never make him say what was wrong with them; whenever I asked such a question, his face grew stern, telling me to find the answers myself. But the few times I did get to meet them, I liked them—they were lively, talkative, with curly hair and distinctive accents. They lived on their own, and I could even smell the fresh, strong spirit of independence in their pores. My father might think they were arrogant, omniscient, and overly confident. Confidence in women is not bad—I’m not one for meekness—and as long as they keep it within their own field, which is at home. Still, such a label is not attractive. I vaguely felt that my nature suited another model, perhaps—I’m not sure if I’m guessing?—I didn’t fit into any category, but was meant to be an outsider.
In this fog of confusion, perhaps around the age of 8 or 9, I found a book that gave me more answers, a book that told me who I was. That book was "A Little Princess," written by Frances Hodgson Burnett. I read it over and over again, as children do when they get a special book. Every few years, I still read it—it draws me in, like beautiful music or a beautiful landscape that we revisit from time to time. Each time, it gives me something, but many key pieces of knowledge are too easily lost, as if the world is trying to make us forget something. I never was sent to a boarding school like the heroine Sara Crewe, nor was I forced to be a domestic servant, nor did I come from a noble family to suffer and then regain wealth and fame. But the delicious freedom of every child is a luxury, and the dark age of seeking conformity—when it began early in my case, as when I was forced to read the "New York Times" as a child—was also a hardship.