In Praise of Authors
Author (Churchill) by Rad Davis
Like many of you, I have a lot of pipes. Too many, if such a thing is possible. While I love them all, some of them exert special magnetism. When I’m contemplating relaxing with a book, paper, or magazine – and I think about smoking a pipe as I read – I will inevitably reach for a particular pipe in that moment. It is in those moments of choosing that I experience that special magnetism. I will reach for a particular pipe.
A couple of years ago, I penned a post called “Comfort Pipes” where I wrote about how some pipes create the same psychological effect on me that comfort food does. Whereas I understand the origins of why I feel some foods are comfort foods and some aren’t – they are often related to particularly warm and vivid memories from childhood and young adulthood – I haven’t been able to put my finger on why some pipes feel more like comfort pipes than others.
For me, it is not just particular pipes that exert that comfort magnetism, it is particular shapes. Where I’m concerned, the author is one of several comfort shapes. It is particularly satisfying to me when I’m contemplating reading. The author is suited to reading.
Unlike many from my generation, I never sought out drugs, mushrooms, or marijuana for transcendental experiences. Since I first discovered the myriad worlds that lurk between the covers of books, I have found all the transcendence I ever wanted from reading. I literally lose all traces of myself when I read; I am a friendly canvas upon which any skilled writer can paint the stories of worlds. I am a willing suspender of disbelief, a savorer of great turns of phrase, and as willingly gullible as the best fishing companion.
There aren’t many things that can pull me out of a great story’s grasp, and without fail, I resent most of them. So, if I must too consciously attend myself to the ministrations of pipe-smoking, frustration and impatience overwhelm my placidity like a cresting wave swamps a small rowboat.
If there was ever a time I want a pipe to stay lit, stay sweet, and smoke long, it is when I’m reading. If there is ever a time when I crave the radiating warmth of a pipe’s bowl while cradled in my hand, it is when I’m reading. These are the defining behaviors and traits of a comfort pipe, and my authors have stepped up and delivered. They are to pipes what a plain-faced, big-hearted, and reliably affectionate woman is to marriage: there for the sweet, long haul through storms and winters and relentlessly cold drizzles.
Authors are not particularly dazzling to regard. There is nothing sexy or racy about them. They are pipes with big hips and double chins. Rubenesque in their proportions, they are retiring in their dispositions. That is what I love about them.
But, when they are suitably loaded and lit, they step back from the front door of one’s consciousness and let the mind saunter into the wilderness of words. An author is a not just a writer’s pipe. It is a reader’s pipe.
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