“I just don’t know where the time goes” I overheard this morning in the changing room at the pond where I swim. I nodded ruefully — a day slips away in the simple doing of modern life: emails to answer, writing and research to be done, plans to be made, food to prepare, bills to pay, dogs to be walked, the needs of ageing parents and the young — and underlying it all, the constant aching worry at wars being waged and the environment collapsing.
My mind feels crowded and noisy in the face of so many demands on my attention. It is easy — so easy — to be caught up in the movement of the day and reach the twilight moments of reflection to wonder: what have I done? With this day? With my life?
I step into a Salon session with lists and undone tasks still buzzing in my head, I worry that I will not be able to settle . . . and then, it happens. People enter the virtual space and something shifts as we all arrive, take a collective breath and slip into the words on the page. For the next few hours we are utterly attendant on the realm of words and ideas. It is not so much that the loud world goes away, rather that the book provides a space for contemplation that orders the overwhelming discord of the mind.
Perhaps it is the struggle with time that the book asks us to consider: how to understand its relentlessness, how to manage the unbearable weight of memory, how to live with flux. In other studies (or even later in the same book) we are considering the mystery of human motivation, how we ourselves often don’t recognise — or try not to — the true reason we treat another person a certain way. On another page, we are digging beneath the surface of racism, finding the complex entanglements within our self-perception that may evolve into a kind of tribalism.
I emerge from the Salon with gratitude for the wonderful minds I have engaged with, for the willingness of each person to go deeply into the work, to offer their ideas, to try out a reading of a difficult passage, sometimes to stumble, and to learn.
I am particularly grateful for the commitment and patience of those who take up one of the longer studies — whether it is a six month Ulysses odyssey, a two-and-a-half-year Proust project, or delving into Finnegans Wake (for however long it takes), or the ‘Slow Read’ of Ulysses or the Proust ‘Rebounders’ — these are all opportunities for a deeper engagement with the book, with each other, and to TAKE OUR TIME. N.B. If you are interested, some of the longer studies can be joined along the way, not just at the beginning (although for the Ulysses Slow Read and the Proust Rebounders there is an expectation of having gone through the text previously).
I found this article by Christine Seifert (in the unlikely space of the Harvard Business Review) to give empirical support to what I have felt in my own work in the Salon and what I have observed in the experience of others. To quote:
“Research suggests that reading literary fiction is an effective way to enhance the brain’s ability to keep an open mind while processing information, a necessary skill for effective decision-making. In a 2013 study, researchers examined something called the need for cognitive closure, or the desire to “reach a quick conclusion in decision-making and an aversion to ambiguity and confusion.” Individuals with a strong need for cognitive closure rely heavily on “early information cues,” meaning they struggle to change their minds as new information becomes available. They also produce fewer individual hypotheses about alternative explanations, which makes them more confident in their own initial (and potentially flawed) beliefs. A high need for cognitive closure also means individuals gravitate toward smaller bits of information and fewer viewpoints. Individuals who resist the need for cognitive closure tend to be more thoughtful, more creative, and more comfortable with competing narratives—all characteristics of high EQ.
“University of Toronto researchers discovered that individuals in their study who read short stories (as opposed to essays) demonstrated a lower need for cognitive closure. That result is not surprising given that reading literature requires us to slow down, take in volumes of information, and then change our minds as we read. There’s no easy answer in literature; instead, there’s only perspective-taking.”
Christine Seifert, The Case for Reading Fiction (Harvard Business Review, March 06, 2020)
Below I have gathered a few poems that speak of the moment we are in and help me to be within the cataclysm of war in my imagination, helping me to not turn away but to be part of human experience empathically. As the study already quoted cites: “no easy answer . . . instead, there’s only perspective-taking.” I hope you too may find them helpful.
Things You May Find Hidden in My Ear by Mosab Abu Toha
