Worth reemphasizing the point every so often. Being susceptible to attention atrophy as I imagine most, being prone to increasing procrastination, distraction, however much of my own particular ruse, I stake in the importance of older pastimes as much as ever …
On the forefront I naturally emphasize the reading of dense, demanding matter of challenging syntactical units and rhetoric, and being capable of sustaining that for lengthy periods; though crafts as the listening to hour-long five-movement symphonies (or dissonant etudes), not to exclude the even finer arts, fall well within the heuristic; refusing to subscribe to the idea of the modern condition rendering the aptitude(s) obsolete.
No, I find the precept very necessary, both as cause and consequence in leading a certain quality of life not overwhelmed by fragmentary digital input menacing each passing moment, that which they call rapid and easily consumable information largely manifesting through the handheld or wrist-worn computer.
I’ve not the taste for that sort of confinement to the extent of my hypocrisy, discipline and resolve. I prefer that coefficient of the traditional and analog to remain elevated and manifest of the beauty of all those dividends as lengthier attention, resilience to distraction, healthier eyesight, more appreciative of the arts and more affordable (for entertainment acquired through the ‘easily consumable’ channels I’ve long observed to indirectly trigger or at least bear relation to greater spending, though subject to person and easily and willingly contestable).
And then I identify that ineffable beauty in paper books, chessboards, vinyl and cassette decks (or even the spartan technologies as older MP3 players), notebooks, art canvas, power tools (with all sorts of ugly industrial equipment) and all that hardly congruent motley I won’t bother to catalogue - in opposition with the all-in-one hand-held computers.
But you can see why I’ve been nearly canonizing all these demanding authors I speak much of, names as Proust, Joyce, Borges, Melville, Cortazar, Dante, Moliere just to name a few; and extending to plays and poems: for the challenge and pleasure in this reading practice, ritual, fascination, call it what you will, what I call legitimate reading, yes. But at a more abstract level, instinct likewise calls for the cultivation of these or some traditional aptitudes modern developments purport to cunningly eradicate, even if a mere shadow thereof, and the endurance necessary therein.
Call it rebellion. Now I wish I had the affinity for memorizing verse per tradition of the generation prior or at least of the humble Soviet sphere I grew up trotting like the Little Prince those tiny little worlds. Once memorized, you’re not bound to any object or setting (or totem) to instantly evoke a fragment or a whole unity into existence. Talk about a superpower when exercised to even one half the degree of my dad who manages to recite all sorts of verse from decades ago.
This I’ve not bothered to train, though not without hints of resentment. Perhaps there’s a limit to how much I’m willing to pursue without finding reciprocal support in my humble Little-Prince-esque sphere of influence, or perhaps due to a priority misalignment. Unsure of the causality or the presence of modern distractions.
Then I only started reading poetry (and theatre, much of it versified) less than five years ago. However high the flux in compensation of the fact, I question if I’ve even the plasticity for this memorization craft per a mind appropriately nurtured from the cradle. I can’t even seem to memorize a few common chess openings.
Or I’ve specifically adapted the prejudice to sever potential pursuit, in contrast to something like language acquisition, which I openly embraced well in the adult age and don’t heed any common credence concerning age or aptitude.
Or I devise all sorts of pseudo rationale not devoid of paradox for this slightly bizarre lifestyle for which I eagerly-obstinately-grudgingly assume responsibility. No, impossible.
Questions, comments? Connect.