“There was no reason why the young man should not have come earlier, for he had dined at seven, alone with his mother and sister, and had lingered afterward over a cigar in the gothic library with glazed black-walnut bookcases and finial-topped chairs which was the only room in the house Mrs. Archer allowed smoking.” (4 The Age of Innocence)

Picture it: a cold, leisurely fall evening. Perhaps on the windowpane is the pitter-patter of rain drops, so you decide to stay in. It’s the perfect time to finally crack open that new novel. You’ve sunk into your comfortable lounge with a cup of herbal tea or perhaps a glass of something stronger to fight off the chill. Everything is cozy and quiet. There is nothing to interrupt you and the soft yellow light of the reading lamp is just right. You open that crisp new paperback, feeling the flexible, fresh spine bend under the weight of your hand and linger of the title page, luxuriating in the pleasurable effect of good typography. And now… And now…

I love the descriptions of Amalia’s home in José Mármol’s novel because they represent that dream of what a home could be, a kind of small, private paradise that I like to imagine and dream about. But I actually meant to start differently, to talk a little bit about an important element of geographical storytelling in Amalia, which is what brought me to Part Two, Chapter 1 “Amalia Sáenz de Olabarrieta” where I quickly became caught up in the lush description of the private sanctuary of Amalia’s bathroom.

Don’t forget to lose yourself in the epic, which was serialized and enormously popular. Especially as you near the end remember that Rosas was still in power and Mármol was writing from exile, aware that he might never return to his home city. The ending is as much a call to action as it is a conclusion, and I think this is an interesting thing to think about when we engage with stories. What purpose does the ending serve?

“On the night of the 4th of May, 1840, at half-past ten o’clock, a party of six men might be seen crossing the inner courtyard of a small house in the Calle de Belgrano, in the city of Buenos Ayres.” Amalia by José Mármol

Is there any more enticing first line to a novel than a midnight escape?

When you buy that first book get some paper too. I won’t tell you what kind to get except I always like to use a bound notebook in the A family for my notes because it is the only way for me to keep from loosing them or shuffling them hopelessly out of order, but you know yourself best and you should choose the note taking materials that most inspire you. The important thing is to have something to write with and something to write on.

If, when you hear “comparative literature” you are not sure what it is, never fear, you are in good company. Join me today to learn about my discipline: comparative literature.

The New York of The Great Gatsby is an outsider’s New York.

There is nothing like picking a novel off my shelf, uncompelled by anything but my own desire that day. This is how I finally truly read The Great Gatsby, in a small apartment one lonely summer deep along the north shore of Long Island, in one of many small towns that exist between New York and the Hamptons, much deeper into the island than East or West Egg.

'“I love New York on summer afternoons when everyone’s away. There’s something very sensuous about it—overripe, as if all sorts of funny fruits were going to fall into your hands.” Jordan Baker in The Great Gatsby by F. Scott Fitzgerald

As a child I liked gaudy book covers, but now I like the simple elegance of a book in uniform, matching its shelfmates with only slight variation in the borders around the edge and the different titles. A principle of design is to strip away the decorative until only the most fundamental is left, and to add from there.