I looked up from my book this morning to see where we were. The subway is crowded again, kids are back to school. In the row across from me, almost everyone was reading–the newspaper, a magazine, a novel, a textbook, their blackberries. Sometimes people ask me if I mind commuting on the subway. I look at them like they are crazy. When else would I have time to read?
There was an engaging piece last week in the Times by Alexis Mainland about reading on the subway. Dig:
The middle-aged woman with the black cardigan around her shoulders had assumed a meticulously calibrated posture: feet shoulder-width apart, arms slightly bent, fists loosely clenched, muscles relaxed yet alert.
She was not preparing for a tae kwon do bout, but performing her personal version of the underground battle engaged in daily by millions of New Yorkers: reading, intently, on a sardine-can D train heading swiftly toward Brooklyn in the evening rush. Without holding on.
“I am a New Yorker,” the woman, Robin Kornhaber, 54, told me as if those five crisp words explained everything. “I can do anything on the subway.”