Silent Reading Parties

The best of all possible worlds

I will write about enthusiasms other than books. I will. But not today. I don’t think anyone is complaining.

First, let me tell you that I have begun writing a second Substack, called Pomegranates and Plowshares, which addresses the rise of antisemitism in the U.S. and elsewhere since the Hamas attacks on Israel of October 7 last year. I am a political progressive who cares deeply about self-determination for people in Gaza (and everywhere), but the antisemitism on the left has floored me. Although I can’t write with any real authority about the politics or history of the Levant region, I have a lot to say about hatred of Jewish people. An examination of antisemitism dovetails nicely with my fascination with, and horror of, conspiracy theories. If you’re curious, you can find that writing at pomandplow.substack. com.

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The Warehouse at the Argos, Ithaca

Now to the subject at hand: Silent Reading Parties. Let me indulge a Midwesternism and say YOU GUYS. You guys, I attended a silent reading party on Wednesday evening of this week, and it was bliss.

Imagine a beautifully appointed room with long green velvet couches, low tables, and chairs for those who prefer perching to lounging (or who didn’t get there early enough). Books on the walls. Friendly, funny librarians dressed for a party. Literary-themed cocktails and mocktails. Delicious finger food. And long stretches of quiet to read alongside friends old and new, with breaks to refill your drink, grab some more cucumber sandwiches, and talk with the people around you (or not).

It was the perfect night out.

This silent reading party was sponsored by the foundation for my local library. Ticket proceeds went to the library’s book-buying fund. The location was a warehouse next door to, and owned by, the inn where I spent my reading-absorption vacation in February. It has the same warm, eclectic, elegant, and comfortable vibe, like your romantic vision of a speakeasy.

When I arrived, I was greeted by a familiar-looking woman; it took us a moment to realize that we’re in a writing group together (the group meets over Zoom, and you know how people look different on Zoom). It turns out she is also the library foundation’s executive director.

She handed me a folded brochure printed with my name.

Look at how charming the inside of the brochure is.

I walked down the hallway to the main room and claimed a corner spot on a couch. There was a station set up to register for a library cards and to check out books (“in case you finish the book you brought or tire of it and need something else to read”). Another station provided information about the foundation and an easy way to make a one-time or recurrent donation to the library’s book-buying fund. To one side of the room, up a few stairs, was the beautiful old bar. Long tables down the center of the room held food, small plates, and napkins.

There was a drink menu, printed especially for the event, on the low table in front of me. Although “Infinite Zest” (gin, grapefruit liqueur, lemon, sparkling wine) was by far my favorite drink name, I opted for “Little House on the Sherry” (bourbon, sherry, and an allspice dram), since bourbon is my drink of choice on the rare occasion that I drink. The food included tea sandwiches, both cucumber and pimento cheese; two patés, one liver and one mushroom (vegan); and delicious homemade cookies (“Like Water for Chocolate” were mocha chocolate chip, “Le Pain de Petite Prince” were two kinds of shortbread).

I was delighted when a perfect stranger sat down beside me. She’s new to town and employed as an attorney at Cornell. We chatted as people were coming in and getting settled; I waved to my friend Masha when she entered, and she came and sat with me and my (now our) new friend Marie. I got up to greet a few more people. And then librarian Woody introduced the evening to us with their typical good humor: quiet reading time with lights up would alternate with times to chat and mingle, lights down. We were encouraged on our personalized bookmarks not once but twice to “see what everyone else was reading.”

My first reaction was to want more time to read, less time to socialize. But it turned out to be a good balance—both because I was in good company and because I was reading a very somber book—and by the end of the evening I had exchanged numbers with my new friend, argued politics with Masha, looked at photos of her with her new sweetheart, and discussed astrology and tarot with a feminist anthropologist Masha introduced me to.

I had brought along two books—the novel I’m currently reading, Prophet Song by Paul Lynch, which won the Booker Prize last year, and the novel I will read next, Tom Lake by Ann Patchett, which I will be discussing next week with my book group. Prophet Song is told from the perspective of a scientist and mother who is living through the first weeks of Ireland’s (fictional) descent into fascism. It is harrowing, and I thought I might need to take it in short bites. But the prose is beautiful, especially in the way it relays the protagonist’s interiority, and the story is relentless. I’ve put off Tom Lake so it will be fresh in my mind when we discuss it; I will begin it this weekend. I’m hosting the group at my house, and I will serve cherry pie.

I recently read—and I’m very sorry that I can’t remember where—that all that writers want is to left alone and to be waited on. (Hence the writing retreat or residency.) I’m carrying that observation around in my pocket; it is funny and apt and true. I think readers, too, want nothing more than to be left alone and fed good food and drink, and to talk about books with interesting, unpretentious people who are also reading books. The silent (then chatty then silent) reading party, in other words, is my perfect night out. And as a fundraiser for the public library? Nothing could be better. I can’t wait for the next one.