I recently found out that I am a “super commuter”, a term which sounds as if it should be referring to a superhero with the power to clear up traffic jams or remove odors from a bus or to perform some other such unrealistic miracle. However, it just means someone who spends 90 minutes or more commuting to work every day. My own commute is generally around three hours total: an hour and a half each way. It’s sometimes faster if I drive rather than take public transit, but I prefer my trains. I head to the BART station each morning at 5:45, transfer to MUNI light rail, and arrive at work by 7:15. At this time of the year, the station looks like a dark, eerie science-fiction set when I arrive before dawn and by the time I step into the street in San Francisco, the sunrise is beginning to burst into view, flooding angled light along the length of the street as if someone spilled a pail of sunlight.
On the ride, I read. (Sometimes I write, too. I wrote this on my phone during my commute.) I try to switch between light reading and heavier fare, sometimes reading books concurrently, as with a recent juggling between a heavy book by Hans Urs von Balthasar and a light book by Terry Pratchett.
Sometimes people will peer over my shoulder to see what I’m reading. Reading Christopher Dawson once led to a conversation with a Lutheran historian about Medieval politics in Northern England. Reading a book on Distributism caused a young political activist to jot down the author and title when a glance at a page had him nodding in agreement with a Chestertonian aphorism. Then there’s the conspiratorial nods you give to a fellow reader of authors such as Gene Wolfe or Tim Powers, followed by the question, “Which of his is your favorite?” …CONTINUE READING