Orlando

I can't remember the page number but I do remember the page; the book was Virginia Woolf's novel Orlando and the lead character just switched genders somewhere between the flip. Sure that I had missed something I went back and reread half the page, turned it again, but no-- the pronoun still switched. Orlando had changed sexes. Was this a printing error? Were pages missing? I wet my fingers to see if maybe there was a page in between. No. It wasn't a mistake. Just brilliant and bold writing that dared to throw a wrench in its own progression. Because the purpose of a book is to turn its pages-- propelled by a good story-- until the end. Then the book is closed, put back on its shelf, and fondly remembered-- maybe even discussed. But closed. Done. And here on that page (whose number I really should look up) this reader was forced to stop. Forced to reverse course. To wonder just what was going on. Demanding that I notice. Stopping the normal. Creating a moment that I remember even now. And this peculiar pause has stuck with me so many years later, and reminded me to seek that strange deviation from the norm. To relish the unfamiliar and therefore reclaim life. In her short essay "Street Haunting: A London Adventure," Ms. Woolf describes a trek through a wintry London on a quest to buy a pencil. She sees a dwarf, who shows off her regular-sized foot with pride. She sees shopkeepers and weaves a detailed scene around them. She observes rich characters and scenes and brings them back to her writing desk. And this pageant is life itself. Her work reminds me to look and see because in this observation life opens up and stops you. Sometimes to reconsider. But always to notice it and relish the surprise.