Berger

I might have to share Coffee Club moments as the power is still out in my neighborhood. I gave up waiting at home as the call for coffee became absolutely dangerous. And my electronics needed charging.

But, a purpose: John Berger was born in Hackney, London, England on this day in 1926.

“When we read a story, we inhabit it. The covers of the book are like a roof and four walls. What is to happen next will take place within the four walls of the story. And this is possible because the story’s voice makes everything its own.”― John Berger, Keeping a Rendezvous. Happy Birthday Johnny!

johnberger

Meanwhile, I’m sharing an outlet with another boother as the place is packed. I wonder how we will manage when the power grid is completely shut down due to someone’s ideological insanity. (Is there any other kind?)

More & more I think the off-the-grid folks have the right idea. Although this is becoming like the bomb shelters of the 50s, isn’t it? If you didn’t have one you had to hope someone who knew & loved you would let you join them. My neighbors wouldn’t share theirs with me. They said they didn’t have enough room in it for anyone else. Jesus. An awful thing to happen to a little kid.

John Peter Berger, writer and art critic, born 5 November 1926; died 2 January 2017. johnberger

It’s his book that hides much of my author-photo face for The Fat Man. The rich family in the novel is also named for him: The Bergers. I don’t mean to imply that he lived a rich life. In reality it’s the opposite, a bit of irony. He was a Marxist and the family is monied and ungenerous. He in fact gave with abandon to the Black Panthers.

It is mostly impossible for me to read his books. I have had And Our Faces, My Heart, Brief as Photos for years now. I read a little and get so inspired-excited that I go off to write or to sketch or just think. (He goes nicely with some Glenn Gould piano.) Eventually I come back to the book and once again I only get so far…sometimes the book is so long to the side that I have to start over again. And how sweet to consume those first pages again and again.