The Life of the Mind

I

My writing office is on the third floor of a brownstone where my wife, daughter, and I have lived for the past fifteen years. When I look out the window in summertime, I am aware of a generalized green from several old chestnut trees; in autumn the leaves turn brown and fall off, and I can see much more clearly my neighbors' brownstones across the street. I've never put up curtains or window-shades, and I am never sure how much my neighbors can see into my study, which is why I don't write at my desk in the nude (or not very often).

Our block, in Carroll Gardens, is a quiet one and used to be ninety-percent Italian, but now is more mixed-gentrified, with Chinese, Arabs, Jews, and whatnot: architects, shrinks, law professors, realtors, Welfare clients, retirees, firemen, graphic designers and, inevitably, several writers. I am glad the view is fairly mundane and not breathtaking, as a vista too picturesque might distract me from writing. The old expression for cogitating is "being in a brown study," and the muddy cocoa backdrop of brownstone façades and stoops across the way permits me to stay in my thoughts while I am dimly conscious of the lapping ambiance of Brooklyn, the sounds of passing cars and the twittering of leaves. It is as though I am cocooned in a tree-house. The muted colors outside my window are slightly blurred around the edges like a Corot painting (the more so because I am near-sighted and not wearing my glasses at the computer). On the columnar spaces between the windows facing the street, and on every inch of the other three walls in my study, stand floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, and the spines of volumes by other authors, peripherally glimpsed, act as prods to keep me on task.

II

There is something about autumn that makes me want to rearrange my bookshelves: a soothing seasonal ritual, like carving pumpkins or burning piles of leaves. This fall, the impulse stole on me unexpectedly. I started to hunt for a book to read when I noticed my Japanese literature section was overflowing with excess paperbacks stacked horizontally above the tops of upright hard-covers, and others in danger of slipping behind the front ranks and disappearing from sight for years. The Italian section, I noticed, had a little extra room. I could consolidate the two—but what connection did Japanese and Italian literature have, other than both countries having been Axis powers that fought against us in World War II? No, it would make more sense to move the Portuguese writers in with the Brazilians, and pair the Japanese shelves with the Chinese.

Before I knew it, I was cradling armfuls of books like a wobbly accordion. I tried to keep them in the same order, but whenever a book or two fell from my hands, the whole alphabetical system was endangered, and I would end up having to file every one separately, which was what I secretly wanted to do, because it gave me the chance to handle each volume, to finger the covers, to browse a bit in the pages. Not so much the books I loved as the ones I had neglected. Maybe as much as one-third of my books I haven't gotten around to reading yet: I stockpile books for a rainy day, but if it were to rain continuously from now until I am ninety, I might still not be able to finish every title. I have the unfortunate habit of going on book-buying binges and then forgetting what I have acquired. More than once I've picked up a classic (some Dickens, say, which I haven't read yet) in a used bookstore or stoop sale on one of my walks, only to discover that I already owned a copy at home.

These rearranging sessions serve to reacquaint me with my stock, and revive the desire to tackle previously daunting titles. I set these aside in a separate pile, an ambitious stack of miscellaneous items...