I took my monochrome black and white Canon to Vermont this weekend. I put my Iphone away in my traveling bag and took it out once.

I don’t own a laptop. I turned my iMac off when we left.

I had the itch to take a self-portrait. In the age of the selfie, self-portraits are difficult for me. I am shy, as is Maria, and it was years before I let her take pictures of me.

But I wanted to share my soul a bit.

We talked and walked and went out to eat this weekend and walked in the woods, but I spent most of the weekend reading the three books, as I promised myself I would.

After going off to the inn’s gym, I started in the late morning and went on straight until nearly midnight.

I read more this weekend than I have in a long time. A friend suggested I might miss writing,  but I didn’t miss it for a second.

Sometimes I just need to clean out the muck, like a vacuum cleaner going after the dust beneath the sofa.

Sometimes, there is so much clutter in my head that I just can’t think.

I finished two of the books, one each day.

I’ll write about them later tonight. One was Klara And The Sun,  the extraordinary new novel by Kazuo Ishiguro -, author of Remains Of The Day, and winner of the Nobel Prize For Literature.

I hate to use the term “masterpiece,” but that’s the word that came to mind. The other time I’ve used the word was after reading Autumn Of The Patriarchs by Gabriel Garcia Marquez., may he rest in much-deserved peace.

The third book I brought was a much-praised new mystery by Christ Whitaker; We Begin at The End. Each one taught me something about myself. The third was a slender and charming paperback by Daniel Klein about aging, Travels with Epicurus.

So far, he’s given me a lot to think about.

I’m halfway through the book tonight and I hope to finish it tonight, or tomorrow at the latest. After that, I’m going to read Tim O’Brien’s, What They Carried, a classic, a brilliant chronicle of a grunt’s life during the Vietnam War.

In between, I thought about a portrait of Maria and also one of myself. The Selfies have definitely cheapened the idea of the portrait, which is nearly moribund as an art form. I love portraits, I believe black and white photography captures the soul of the subject.

Maria has the most amazing face; I love taking her portrait.

People have asked me why I don’t do more self-portraits. One is that I don’t think I look very appetizing, the other is that think every one of my images is a self-portrait, especially when I’m not in it.

I often wonder why anybody would like to see my self-portrait, but I thought it made more sense if I put my camera in it. If the black-and-white camera captures the soul, perhaps I can return the favor.

Everything is a self-portrait, everything is a diary. I think I also am drawn to self-portraits sometimes because I am most often alone, and I am the person I know the best.

I’m not as well known as any of the authors whose books I’m reading, but I have this thought sometimes that some bright and curious kids, trawling through the archives of the Internet far down the road, might come across my name and wonder what I look like.

He or she ought to be able to find out.