the sunday nap and steinbeck

I'm resisting the Sunday nap today. The boys are both asleep right now, but I'm holding out. For me, sleeping on Sundays is both awesome and awful. I love being lazy and taking a snooze, mostly because I never allow myself to do those things on any other day of the week. But if I nap on Sundays I can never, ever fall asleep at a decent hour when the night comes. I toss and turn in bed each Sunday night, ruing the moment that I succumbed to the Sunday laze. Sunday naps are the bane of my existence, mostly because I love them so much.

Let's hope I can fall asleep tonight.

In other news, J and I have started to read a book together in the evenings. When J suggested the idea a few weeks ago, my jaw dropped open. It's not that J doesn't like to read, he just doesn't like fiction very much. J only gets in the mood to read fiction once every few years. The last novel he started was two years ago. He got a good way through A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man before the urge to read fiction left. I wonder if he'll ever finish it.

Anyhow, we are reading Steinbeck's East of Eden together. Hopefully we can finish it before J loses interest in fiction (again). It's fun to talk about the different metaphors and themes (particularly the Cain/Abel parallels) with different characters. It's also fun for me to look at the cover of our copy (see left). This painting (Cain and Abel by Titian, 1542-44) was one of the paintings which escaped damage after a recent fire disaster (another Titian painting which hung on the same ceiling wasn't as lucky).

Steinbeck writes very beautifully, and his passages are often very reflective. Reading with J has also forced me to slow down and enjoy Steinbeck's descriptions and thoughts more, largely because J and I read out loud. Since we're reading together, I can't barrel my way through lengthy descriptions (which often happens when reading fiction. My eye immediately starts to scan for the next plot-moving device. Hmm. I wonder what that says about my personality.).

Last night we read an interesting passage in which Steinbeck discusses the difference between a story and a lie. I can't help but think that Steinbeck was had himself in mind when writing the end of this passage: "I think the difference between a lie and a story is that a story utilizes the trappings and appearance of truth for the interest of the listener as well as of the teller. A story has in it neither gain nor loss. But a lie is a device for profit or escape. I suppose if that definition is strictly held to, then a writer of stories is a liar - if he is financially fortunate." (New York: Penguin Books, p.74).

I love the feeling that Steinbeck is pondering and thinking about himself while he writes. It's as if he is learning and reflecting alongside his readers. I like that we (Steinbeck, me and J) are journeying and discovering things together.