Sleeping with Hemingway

I sleep with books now. Sleeping with books wasn’t something I planned nor was it something I was aware of wanting to do. But it seems there was always some memory or picture in my mind of doing so — perhaps taken from the scene of a movie or from my former Scandinavian lifestyle.

In the past, I’ve never been able to sleep with books — which I promise is delightful — because I’ve always been sleeping next to a man. But there they are now, books and notebooks scattered around my bed, stacked in piles on the floor, and grouped together like high-rise buildings on my mother’s cedar chest. Presently I’m sleeping with a copy of Haruki Murakami’s Kafka On The Shore, Benjamin Dryer’s Dryer’s English, Hemingway’s Moveable Feast, Mary Gabriel’s Ninth Street Women, and Laure K. Denton’s Hurricane Season.

It’s cozy and romantic being able to wake up on a chilly morning and reach for a book without leaving the bed. It is equally comforting falling to sleep with an open copy of Daniel Silva on my pillow.

The Danish have a philosophy about such comfort and coziness. It’s called hygge and involves candlelight, big woolen socks, blankets, hot chocolate, and of course a good book. Hygge is even better if there is a storm blowing outside. But hygge is not so much a ritual, it’s a lifestyle. It’s a big comfy sweater that we can wrap ourselves in after work or on the weekend when we seek comfort, and to be reminded of simple pleasures.

I also have scores of journals and notebooks. They are little treasures waiting to hold some written truths or fictions. There are no less than five of them in colorful varieties. Some are bound in leather and a few are Moleskines. All of them waiting patiently for me to record moments of my pleasure and pain.

This is one of the things I love about being single. I have the independence to follow my bliss unencumbered.

If you wish to learn more about Hygge, see this wonderful article in Mashable on the commercialization of Hygge.