Artichokes

Billy Miller sat in the easy chair of his library reading the latest addition to his book collection, Kafka on the Shore by Haruki Murakami. His library was really all of the small apartment he lived in. The sky was low and obscured the taller buildings in the neighborhood. A light mist fell from the low clouds, yet the temperature was mild for February.

Billy had been ill for over a week with a respiratory cold. He had not slept long or well in over a week except for last night when his body, finally overcome by complete exhaustion, gave way to a deep and dreamless sleep early on Sunday morning. Sleep instead of refreshing him made his body thirst for more. He felt it as a mental and spiritual exhaustion as much as a physical need.

He was bewitched by the fantastic world created by Murakami. The first duty of a novelist is to suspend the belief of the reader and immerse the reader in a dream world. The novel and the short story were perfect forms for doing this. The novel as a form of imagining and entertaining will not die Billy thought. There would always be many people who desired to have their imaginations jogged and set into motion.

Billy thought himself a fortunate man as he looked down at the people scurrying along the street beneath their umbrellas. He owned a nice library for reading. A library that marked him as a person who possessed a naïve erudition and intellectual curiosity. He often wondered if he had lived a silly and meaningless life because of this. He had spent a lot of hours reading books and what was the good in that if it was just words that went into his mind and then lay frozen and inert never acting or reacting against the world outside his mind? This question came to him all too often, but he always gave up trying to answer it. Books were a love, a mania, and obsession he acquired when he first learned to read. Breaking the habit of a lifetime was beyond the weakness of his will.

Billy thought of the London broil steak in his refrigerator he would eat this evening and the artichoke hearts which would accompany the steak. He grew thirsty for a glass of orange juice. Odd memories flitted across his mind, failed love affairs mostly, for what failure could be more catastrophic and sad than a failed love? He supposed that was the worst that could happen to a person if they possessed the other necessities of life: food, shelter, clothing, education, friends, and a position in society.

Billy had the basics. Books and a computer and printer with which to write the odd reflection or thought. He wanted for imagination and a grasp of the details of reality, but that was no handicap. Imagination and a grasp of details were not highly prized in the mundane world. People would often say they were, but mostly people were preoccupied with making do for themselves and their families. Today, making do was the steak and the artichokes and overcoming the sadness caused by memory.