let go but did not know how. She seemed full of purpose and strength; I was confused and disoriented.
She took me down the hall farther than I had ever been before, around a corner and through a double door and then down another hall. There were doorways all along, and some of them were open. The rooms seemed to be empty.
She seemed to guess what I was thinking. “Have you been down this far before?” she said.
Somehow I felt ashamed that I hadn’t. But I had never thought of looking in all those rooms. It didn’t seem proper. I didn’t answer and she said, “I’ll close those doors later,” and then, “I couldn’t sleep last night, so I got up after a while and started exploring.” She laughed. “Simon always said, ‘Check out your surroundings, sweetheart.’ So I’ve been wandering around the halls like Lady Macbeth opening doors. Most of the rooms were empty.”
“What’s Lady Macbeth?” I said, trying to make conversation.
“A person who walks around in pajamas,” she said.
At the end of the new hall we were in was a big red door, standing open. She led me to it, and as we walked into the room, finally let go of my hand.
I stared around me. The steel walls of the room were covered with shelves that were apparently made for books. I had seen a room somewhat like this in a film—except that there were big pictures on one of the walls of that room and tables and lamps. This one had nothing in it but shelves. Most of them were empty and covered with thick dust. There was a red carpet on the floor, with big spots of mold. But one wall, at the back of the room, had what must have been a hundred books.
“Look!” Mary Lou said, and ran over to the shelf. She ran a hand, very gently, along one of them. “Simon told me there were books. But I had no idea there were so many.”
Since I knew something about books already, it made me feel more comfortable—more in charge of things—to go over slowly and inspect them. I took one out of a shelf. The cover had a different version of that same pattern of squares, and the title read:
Paul Morphy and the Golden Age of Chess
. Inside were the same diagrams as in the first, but more writing of the ordinary kind.
I was holding the book open, trying to guess at what the word “chess” might mean, when Mary Lou spoke. “What is it exactly that you
do
with a book?”
“You read it.”
“Oh,” she said. And then, “What does ‘read’ mean?”
I nodded. Then I began turning the pages of the book I was holding and said, “Some of these markings here represent sounds. And the sounds make words. You look at the marks and sounds come into your mind and, after you practice long enough, they begin to sound like hearing a person talking. Talking—but silently.”
She stared at me for a long time. Then she took a book from the shelf, somewhat awkwardly, and opened it. She was finding it a strange and complicated thing to handle, as I had a yellow before. She looked at the pages, felt of them with her fingers, and then handed the book back to me, her face blank. “I don’t understand,” she said.
I started to explain it again. Then I said, “I can say aloud what I am reading. It’s what I do in my work—reading and then saying it aloud.”
She frowned. “I still don’t understand.” She looked at me and then at the books on the steel shelves, and then at the moldy carpet on the floor at her feet. “Your work is ... reading. Books?”
“No. I read something else. Something called silent films.” I took the book from her. “I’ll say aloud, if I can, what I read. Maybe that will make it understandable.”
She nodded and I opened to the middle and began. “Mostly preferred is five B to B four, followed by the Lasker Variation, for, while White may regain his pawn, he obtains no great attack. It will be seen that, after the ninth move of White, a well-known position is arrived at, and most authorities consider it all in favor of the White
She took me down the hall farther than I had ever been before, around a corner and through a double door and then down another hall. There were doorways all along, and some of them were open. The rooms seemed to be empty.
She seemed to guess what I was thinking. “Have you been down this far before?” she said.
Somehow I felt ashamed that I hadn’t. But I had never thought of looking in all those rooms. It didn’t seem proper. I didn’t answer and she said, “I’ll close those doors later,” and then, “I couldn’t sleep last night, so I got up after a while and started exploring.” She laughed. “Simon always said, ‘Check out your surroundings, sweetheart.’ So I’ve been wandering around the halls like Lady Macbeth opening doors. Most of the rooms were empty.”
“What’s Lady Macbeth?” I said, trying to make conversation.
“A person who walks around in pajamas,” she said.
At the end of the new hall we were in was a big red door, standing open. She led me to it, and as we walked into the room, finally let go of my hand.
I stared around me. The steel walls of the room were covered with shelves that were apparently made for books. I had seen a room somewhat like this in a film—except that there were big pictures on one of the walls of that room and tables and lamps. This one had nothing in it but shelves. Most of them were empty and covered with thick dust. There was a red carpet on the floor, with big spots of mold. But one wall, at the back of the room, had what must have been a hundred books.
“Look!” Mary Lou said, and ran over to the shelf. She ran a hand, very gently, along one of them. “Simon told me there were books. But I had no idea there were so many.”
Since I knew something about books already, it made me feel more comfortable—more in charge of things—to go over slowly and inspect them. I took one out of a shelf. The cover had a different version of that same pattern of squares, and the title read:
Paul Morphy and the Golden Age of Chess
. Inside were the same diagrams as in the first, but more writing of the ordinary kind.
I was holding the book open, trying to guess at what the word “chess” might mean, when Mary Lou spoke. “What is it exactly that you
do
with a book?”
“You read it.”
“Oh,” she said. And then, “What does ‘read’ mean?”
I nodded. Then I began turning the pages of the book I was holding and said, “Some of these markings here represent sounds. And the sounds make words. You look at the marks and sounds come into your mind and, after you practice long enough, they begin to sound like hearing a person talking. Talking—but silently.”
She stared at me for a long time. Then she took a book from the shelf, somewhat awkwardly, and opened it. She was finding it a strange and complicated thing to handle, as I had a yellow before. She looked at the pages, felt of them with her fingers, and then handed the book back to me, her face blank. “I don’t understand,” she said.
I started to explain it again. Then I said, “I can say aloud what I am reading. It’s what I do in my work—reading and then saying it aloud.”
She frowned. “I still don’t understand.” She looked at me and then at the books on the steel shelves, and then at the moldy carpet on the floor at her feet. “Your work is ... reading. Books?”
“No. I read something else. Something called silent films.” I took the book from her. “I’ll say aloud, if I can, what I read. Maybe that will make it understandable.”
She nodded and I opened to the middle and began. “Mostly preferred is five B to B four, followed by the Lasker Variation, for, while White may regain his pawn, he obtains no great attack. It will be seen that, after the ninth move of White, a well-known position is arrived at, and most authorities consider it all in favor of the White
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