Black Gate

. . . And the boy thought,
This is wonderful! and left his father,
Soared higher, higher, drawn to the vast heaven,
Nearer the sun, and the wax that held the wings
Melted in that fierce heat, and the bare arms
Beat up and down in air, and lacking oarage
Took hold of nothing. Father! he cried, and Father!
Until the blue sea hushed him, the dark water
Men call Icarian now. And Daedalus,
Father no more, called “Icarus, where are you!
Where are you, Icarus? Tell me where to find you!”
And saw the wings on the waves, and cursed his talents,
Buried the body in a tomb, and the land
Was named for Icarus.

—Ovid, Metamorphoses Book VIII

Where does the love of fantasy, and of storytelling, start? For every person it’s different, of course. For me it begins with feathers on the waves.

Those feathers, the remains of Icarus’s joyful but tragic flight toward the sun when he forgot his father’s warnings, are specific for me. But the broad world of the tales of the Greeks and Romans are a gateway for many people into fantasy. Whether it started with the Minotaur, the war at Troy, the labors of Heracles, Bellerophon on Pegasus against the Chimaera, or Perseus and Medusa, the Greek’s ancient religion and the poets whose writing let it survive have introduced countless readers to the fantastic and the greatness it can achieve.

I’ve often thought about the source of the power of the Greco-Roman legends, their heroes and the gods, and why they still have such enormous affect on us today, when no one worships them any more. They were even losing their grip on religious importance in the time of Ovid, one of the greatest tellers of their exploits. In the twenty-first century, the Iliad is no less an engrossing a story, the plays of Sophocles can still ensnare an audience, and even Hesiod can infuse a sense of wonder in a modern reader as he writes about the beginnings of all things.

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Following up on John’s post (and subsequent discussion) concerning the predicament of Barnes and Noble, which seems to be getting a taste of its own medicine as e-books and online book buying may relegate the superstore concept as nostalgic as the local independent book dealer, is this article from The New York Times. What’s interesting is the prediction that despite the growing acceptance of reading on handheld screens and website ordering, surviving independent stores may still flourish because of their personalized service to niche customers.

Makes sense. Every time I go into an independent bookstore, I feel compelled to buy something even if I already have to many books I haven’t read yet, much less that I could get the book cheaper online (or even at Barnes and Noble). One reason I like to support these guys is that there’s something very attractive about “non-chain store” shopping, where owners have put their own individual stamp on the presentation and perusal of their wares.

True, they may not be as deep stocked as B&N (or at least used to be).  But, funny how the books they do carry in the fiction section are almost exactly the kinds of things I’m interested in.

To give B&N its due, though, I always thought it conveyed more a sense of a traditional bookshop than its much more troubled competitor, Borders. (Gone into one lately?  It’s like Waldenbooks on steroids, meaning appealing to the lowest common denominator is even more depressing when it’s bloated with stationary and puzzles).  And the people who worked there do seem to be knowledgeable and enthusiastic about books, unlike some of the clueless clerks you might find in a mall record store (do they still have those?).

As for what will happen to the physical book once we’re all reading on our Kindles or iPads or inner eyelid digital display inlays, check out this article by Rob Walker, also from theTimes.  I particularly like the idea of using an old discarded book to house your Kindle. And that someone could actually sell it for $25.

See, all those books bending your bookshelves do have some future value.  Get ’em while you can.