Like snowflakes, no two days in a human life are exactly alike.  While most of our days seem to fade into our respective pasts in a monochromatic blur of routine and habit, each day is singular.  Ian McEwan’s Saturday is a recounting of a singular day in the life of one man, Henry Perowne, a neurosurgeon living in London.  The book follows Henry through the entire course of a singular Saturday in his life.  In many ways, his Saturday is mundane; it could be the Saturday of any affluent, urban-dwelling professional.  He plays squash, he visits his elderly mother at a nursing home, he goes shopping for dinner.  But a few small but important events transpire that ultimately stand apart this Saturday from all others.  Set against the backdrop of the buildup to the Iraq war, McEwan gracefully chronicles Perowne’s constant inner dialogue, which fluidly shifts from present to past, from memory to anticipation.  The book reminds us that it is the random, unpredictable moments, blazing across the horizon of our existence like a comet, that make life both sublime and horrifying. 

 

Next up: George R.R. Martin’s A Feast for Crows, the fourth book in his A Song of Fire and Ice opus.  At more than 700 pages, I’m going to have to exercise some serious discipline to finish this book in a reasonable amount of time.  It’s been nearly three years since I read the last book in the series, but the chapter synopses over at Tower of the Hand are proving very helpful. 

 

What books are on your summer reading lists? 

An acquaintance of mine, a young woman with a disability, passed away suddenly last week.  I didn’t know her well, but her partner is a colleague and good friend of mine.  Her memorial service was this morning and the church overflowed with those who had come to say goodbye.  Her empty wheelchair and a photograph of her and her devoted service dog sat in arrangement on the elevated stage at the front of the sanctuary.  I looked at them and I watched the pews fill with mourners and I thought about all the usual things you think about when you’re confronted with someone else’s mortality and, by implication, your own.  How sad it was that this person couldn’t have remained with the people she loved for a longer period of time.  How remarkable and rich her existence had been.  How I sometimes allow myself to be absorbed in the bothersome minutiae of daily life and forget to savor the occasional moment. 

 

It’s an absolutely perfect day outside.  I hope you’re enjoying a little perfection, wherever you are. 

I’m usually suspicious of conspiracy theories, whether they come from the right or left.  So often, conspiracy theories seem to force a narrative on events that allows proponents to avoid confronting the more prosaic factors underlying most large-scale tragedies: human failings on a massive scale and an indifferent universe.  But I just scanned Robert F. Kennedy, Jr.’s Rolling Stone article in which he makes a compelling case that significant voter fraud occurred during the 2004 presidential election, particularly in Ohio.  I’ve heard similar claims in the past and I always dismissed them as more hyperbole from the fringe left.  I reasoned that any indications of election fraud would have been revealed in the media.  Perhaps the idealist in me wanted to trust in the supposed transparency of our electoral process–to refuse to believe that another fiasco like the election of 2000 could happen again.  I’m certainly not qualified to judge whether fraud did indeed occur in Ohio, but I may have been mistaken when I so casually dismissed the protests of some of my fellow progressives.

 

I’m also starting to think that the disability community’s push to have electronic voting machines installed in every precinct might be making us unwitting enablers of future stolen elections.  I’d rather let another person mark a ballot for me than have any concerns that the security of my vote could be compromised. 

 

 

I’m beginning to suspect that my wheelchair has magical age-combatting properties.  I was ordering a beer yesterday when the server, no doubt a well-meaning and conscientious lad, asked me, “You sure you’re old enough?”  I desperately wanted to reply, “Sonny, I was drinking beer when you were still fascinated by your own boogers.  Now run along and get me my damn drink.”  But I simply smiled politely and nodded.  Throughout my whole life, strangers have tended to assume I’m younger than my actual age.  Perhaps it’s because of my small stature or my lack of a deep, manly voice.  I suppose this perception of me could come in handy as I get older, but I still find it annoying at present.  Maybe I’m destined to be a gimpy version of Bob Costas, looking eternally young even when I’m in my dotage.