House Sitting in Kiev—Or Why I Read
If I were to visit Kiev today, I might see in its shadows the struggles of Bulgakov's Turbin family. I would understand the significance of Gogol's Nose. But back in 2011, when I first visited Ukraine, that wondrous city presented itself to me largely unmediated by literary imagination.
I was nearing the end of my Bachelor's program. Double-majoring in philosophy and psychology, I was stressed and in need of a holiday. My parents had recently relocated to Kiev and were looking for someone to take care of the house and cats while they went on a trip. The dates aligned with the end of my semester, so it was settled: I would stay in their house for a couple of weeks.
Alone in an unfamiliar place, my company was the city itself—aside from the cats, of course, one of which (Tai Tai) would later come to live with me and is my companion to this day. I spent those days strolling along cobblestoned streets and resting in verdurous, viola-lined botanical gardens. Looking up into the April sky from a wooden bench, the golden cupolas of other-worldly churches caught the corners of my eyes, eagerly reflecting the sun. The weather was perfect: clear and dry, but not too warm. The Dnieper breathed a deep, timeless calm into the city. Known as the Borysthenes in classical antiquity, it was already described by Herodotus in his Histories: it "supplies the herds with the most beautiful and nurturing pastures and also provides by far the best and most numerous fish [of all rivers]; its water is the sweetest for drinking and flows clear alongside others that are muddy; the seeds sown beside its water grows the best, and where no seed is sown, the wild grass grows most thickly."[1] The richness of the Ukrainian land has historically been its blessing and misfortune.
I didn't just walk around the city. I also read—maybe for the first time in my life. Let me explain. As a child, I loved to read. I had a small collection of books that I cherished and that I read and re-read in waves. I would finish a book and go back to the beginning to read it again. How could White Fang end? It couldn't! I see this now as the first phase of my reading: innocent, rapturous, and unreflective.
The second phase began when I had to read literature for school. It was during middle school (in Prague) that I began to read more serious books and to read books more seriously; the intensity of reading continued and increased throughout my high school, culminating in an immense two years of English (HL) for my International Baccalaureate degree (in Manila). The HL stands for Higher Level, which my English teacher took to heart—so much so, in fact, that a number of parents complained about the massive workload (dear sir, there are other classes!). In those two years, I read One Hundred Years of Solitude, Miramar, Native Son, Oedipus Rex, The Sun Also Rises, The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn, The Crucible, The Grapes of Wrath, Native Sun, Things Fall Apart, Othello, Henry V, The Great Gatsby, and a number of 'independent choice' novels. I read all of these books willingly, joyfully, loving them as well as the inevitable discussions about what they were supposed to mean.
Throughout my Bachelor's program, I was so taken up with all the fascinating things that I had to read for my classes that the idea of independent reading hardly crossed my mind. I went to a Liberal Arts college, where we had to follow 'tracks' beyond our main disciplines (for me, philosophy and psychology). I took classes in linguistics, socioeconomic history, political theory, biology, and so on. Another, elected class on the idea of ‘Homo Universalis’ probably sums things up. I was a zealous student and read everything that was assigned to me. My reading time was more than adequately accounted for, and any free time that I had, I spent in the usual small-college-campus-life way.
The third phase of my reading, which persists to this day (I refuse to call it final), began in those Kiev days. Facing time and solitude, I decided to read literature again—now purely for myself. Willfully and self-consciously. I specifically set out to read all of the classics; all of the greatest literary, poetic, and dramatic works ever produced by human beings. Accordingly, on one of the first days of my visit, I went to a bookstore that was supposed to sell English books. There was indeed an English section. A small shelf of mostly cheap Wordsworth editions stood tucked away in the far corner of the store. But what treasure! Controlling myself, I only bought eight books, mostly works of Russian literature.
The first book that I read, however, and the one that would leave an indelible impression on me, was Dostoevsky's The Idiot. How strange, how wonderful a novel! Life itself—but also more than life, better than life. Something that moved beyond existence, which could be contained neither by the book itself nor by my enthusiasm in reading it. I raced through the novel in the quiet evenings at my parents' house, and I have not stopped reading since. I now give virtually all of my free time to books, collecting and surrounding myself with them, never leaving without at least one of them in my bag. It didn’t take me long to read all of Dostoevsky's fiction; like a thirsty man stumbling on a carafe of water, I drank his writing up. I made a Goodreads account in Kiev, and recently marked a thousandth book as 'read' on there.
Why? Why do I spend so much of my time reading? It's not just that, to borrow Fitzgerald's phrase, books contain "the splendor and the sadness of the world."[2] This is, of course, part of it. There is spectacular beauty and grandness in literature that you simply cannot find anywhere else. Yet I think that, most of all, I have come to associate reading with freedom. It wouldn't be hyperbolic of me to say that reading is my life; that, through reading, I have created and continue to make myself. I do this apart from the world, which is important: we read alone, even when we talk about what we read.
My understanding of reading as self-constitution explains my hesitation concerning two trends that I have recently discerned. The first is that so many people seem so eager to be told by others what to read. It is almost as if they implicitly recognize the responsibility that comes with reading, and that they would rather offload it to others. Or, perhaps, they simply wish to fall in with the crowd. But if there were ever an area so rich with meaningful choices, an activity through which we can so uniquely find and constitute ourselves, it is in reading. Why look to others? For me, virtually the only reason to read something at the hands of another person's suggestion is love. If what we read is part of who we are then, if I love you, I want to read what is important to you, what you care about, what you find moving. Most—if not all—other reasons you can let go; it will probably be liberating.
This brings me to the second trend, namely the desire of an increasing number of people (so it seems) to want to dictate or moderate what other people read. This can be seen as the other side of people seeking to be told: those telling others what—and especially what not—to read. I once shared my Hamsun collection on Instagram, to receive a comment from one person that I shouldn't be sharing works by a fascist. In fact, I think they formulated it in the following way: "Do you really think that now is a good time to promote a fascist?" As if there ever were a good time to promote a fascist! Aside from the asinine simplicity of the characterization (as if that were the entirety of the matter) and the depressing idea that it might deter impressionable people from reading Hamsun's work (some of which is among the most brilliant writing that you can find), there is another dimension to it. This person wanted to stop others from reading. This, I think, must always be resisted. At least when it comes to private reading. If we're talking about university syllabi and ‘official’ reading lists, then there should, of course, be room for public negotiation about what or what not ought to be included. Our own reading, however, is and should always be our own. This means taking responsibility for it, too, which is often more difficult than simply avoiding whatever is potentially controversial, anything not clad in purely white clothes. To accept the good and reject the bad within the same work, within the same author, within the same human being (within ourselves?)—to work out for yourself what exactly this good and bad means—is a vital part of what it is to be a moral being. We must allow others to struggle through the same.
I was happy in Kiev—reading, wandering around, and teaching Tai Tai to climb onto my shoulders. My love of books was reignited and fanned, to the point where I now own a collection in the thousands. And counting, and counting. It is unthinkable to part with them, as it is unimaginable for me to spend a day not having read. There is much else to say about this, but I will leave it for another time. Borrowing from Fitzgerald again, "a man in his hunger for faith will feed his mind with the nearest and most convenient food."[3] Perhaps this is why I keep books so close.
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[1] Herodotus. (2007). The Histories. Edited by Robert B. Strassler. Translated by Andrea L. Purvis. New York: Anchor Books. p. 304.
[2] Fitzgerald, F. Scott. (1920/2001). This Side of Paradise. London: Alma Classics. p. 138.
[3] Ibid. p. 234.
Great stuff. You had me giggle too. And obviously it brings back memories. Thanks love!
What a lovely story!