Fiction and Isolation

Everyone here in the city seems to be up on the latest fiction bestseller. Everyone (even their dogs) has a book to read on the subway. When I steal a glimpse of what the person next to me on the subway is reading, I get slightly amused and delve into a fantasy world of my own. I like to imagine what the person next to me is thinking as they devour the words on the page.

People here eat while reading books. People here walk while reading books. People here talk while reading books. People here sleep while reading books. It seems like whatever book you're reading is a fashion statement. The "in" thing to do.

The irony is that the people who look the stupidest are usually reading something deep and complex. The people who look the smartest, i.e., studious and well-dressed, are usually reading something simple. Aren't appearances deceiving?

I've had trouble getting into fiction or anything over three pages since I moved here. I will start a book and suddenly become disinterested because it doesn't move me, doesn't shake me, doesn't make me feel something. I just don't understand my tastes because every time, I mean every time someone recommends a book to me and says "This book is sooo amazing. You'll be hooked from the first page," it usually ends up underneath my bed gathering dust, bent and crumpled.

Last night, a miracle occurred. I picked up a book, and, drumroll please, I was hooked. It's called "Namesake" by some Indian author. It's about Indian immigrants who come to America in the early 60s. Probably doesn't sound too different, but the intricate, overlapping themes of the book have really resonated with me.

After I moved back from Italy in 2003 I had to finish my Bachelor's degree. One of the courses I had to take was Contemporary American lit. My teacher was this bitchy, menopausal psychopath who wanted us to interpret the stories from her point of view and parrot it on the exams.

One day, as I was discussing an exam with her in her office, she started to talk to me about my experience of living in Italy and being married to an Italian. It's a conversation I'll never forget:

Teacher: "Gosh, you had so many themes of isolation going on when you were in Italy. Have you ever thought about writing about those themes?"

Me: "Well, um..."

Teacher: "See, the first theme is being so far away from your family. The second theme is not knowing the language, the third theme is that your husband was away so much and the fourth theme is that you were new to marriage. All at one time! Amazing!"

Me: "Well, um, I've never really thought about it that way..."

As I read this book about the Indian immigrants, I can't help but think of that conversation with my psycho, yet brilliant professor. I can't help but think of all the themes of isolation that have repeated over and over in my life... Aren't we all immigrants in some form or another? I'm an immigrant in New York.

Don't we all feel like strangers?

One of my favorite quotes is: "We're not human beings having a spiritual experience. We're spiritual beings having a human experience."

I guess I shouldn't be so hard on myself because I haven't followed the status quo and read the latest fashionable book. Just like the dating thing, I'm sure the right book will come to me...Hey, it did last night.