If on a summer’s night a traveler

After a couple hours on the road, as we passed exit signs to Jacksonville, I thought that traveling is a lot like reading. In particular, the act of driving a long distance. There’s a clear start and a clear end, and you’re pretty certain that the simple application of time will take you from A to B. But progress isn’t measured in time, and for good reason. The miles or the pages both take a degree of effort rather than just happening, and you will sometimes have to slow down, pull over, or double back.

Around 12 hours and nearly 700 miles later, we arrived back in the mountain home north of Asheville, aka the greatest reading spot in the world. I’m now making a trek through Italo Calvino’s If on a winter’s night a traveler, currently just over fifty pages in. I think it’s the only novel I’ve read in the second person, with you, also called the Reader, as the protagonist. The narrative is crisp despite what may seem like a clever device – a reader (you) seeking the rest of a story that’s been cut off prematurely.

I’m hoping to push through page 100 tonight as this traveler is ready to rest. But it’s hard to put down until I find out what happens to me.