Addicted to Reading

I hyperventilate when I go into used bookstores. For thirty years my husband has dragged me to antique stores and the only saving grace to these excursions (where eventually every antique begins to look the same) is that sometimes the booths will have books. I zero in on these, turning my head sideways to read along the spines. I don’t feel the same way in my local Books-a-Million, although if I have to go shopping that’s where I want to go.

There’s just something about the smell of used bookstores and the possibility of treasures to be found. If I’m going to by one of the classics or a book on my list, I don’t want one of those repackaged recent releases or (God forbid) the ones that put on the cover not the person but the movie star playing that person (seriously, a book about Julia Child with Meryl Streep on the cover?). And I’m not all worried about getting first editions or signed copies. Instead, I just want to pick it up and know that I’m giving it new life. It was written (by hand, in the case of those classics), edited, typeset (when typesetting was really setting type), printed bound, and sent out into the world. Someone bought it and put it on a shelf. Sometimes that person’s name will appear handwritten inside the cover. Chances are, that person read it. I love it when evidence of that shows up with underlines or marginal comments.

I love the feel of those books. I will often buy it if it feels right in my hands. I look forward to reading it just so I can hold it and turn the pages. The last time the book felt that was when that person decades ago did the same as I am doing now. It’s a kinship. We read the same words, get engrossed in the same story, get pulled away into the world that writer created.

What is it that pulls us into books? Why do we read, anyway? In her book, Ruined by ruined by readingReading: A Life in Books, Lynne Sharon Schwartz muses about why we are willing to spend hours of our lives with tales others have spun.

I have read for so many years but, like Schwartz, I wonder at why it is I cannot recall so much of what I’ve read. Thus I’m glad to know that others have been in the same boat. Schwartz writes, “I don’t remember much of what I’ve read. My lifelong capacity for forgetting distresses me. I glance at a book on the shelf that I once read with avid interest . . . and while I struggle for the details, all I recall is the excitement of the reading. . . . What do I have, then, after years of indulgence? A feel, a texture, an aura.”

Precisely for this reason of forgetting what I’ve read (and the accompanying distress), a few years ago I gathered up some of those lists of “must read” classic books. I began to work my way through it, hoping to recapture the wonder. As I began pursuing an advanced degree in English, I realized that I had to be able to actually discuss the classic works, not just pretend that I had read them or, even if I had, pretend that I remembered them. So the past few years I dove into Moby Dick and This Side of Paradise and The Old Man and the Sea and Portrait of a Lady among many others of the great classics. Some I enjoyed. Some I wanted to pull my eyes out (hello, Moby Dick. I’m sorry. I probably need to turn in my credentials to speak such blasphemy). But I felt accomplished reading them and saying I’ve read them and being able to, while perhaps not remembering all the details (a problem I wish I could overcome, but maybe no one remembers every detail), at least remember the basic story.

And that makes me feel something.

What is that feeling? And why do I feel it? When I finish a classic work, I join a club—a club of readers across months or years or decades or centuries who also have gently opened the cover, absorbed the words, turned the pages, finished and imbibed the story. No matter what I do, it’s there forever. Of course, not all the details (as I’ve already established) but the story. I am forever changed, I have a new view on the world, I learned something.

That tends to be my “divining rod” (as Schwartz calls it) helping me work my way through the morass of books stacked in teetering piles in used bookstores. I go straight to the reference section to find books about writing that I can use in my teaching. Then I’m over in the classics, then memoir, then the books of essays. I have never been a reader of romance or popular fiction. (On a visit, I once picked up a copy of a Danielle Steele at my mother-in-law’s house. By the fourth page I was so appalled by the terrible writing I laughed out loud.)

When I read, I want to learn something. And if a book isn’t pulling me along with its lyrical writing or keeping me turning pages or giving me info that helps me see the world in a new way, then I’m not interested and am not above putting it back on the shelf unfinished.

Life is too short to read a bad book.

But I feel like I came late to the reading game. I wasn’t precocious. In fact, I remember being mortified that many of my fellow fifth graders were reading from the advanced areas of the reading box when I was down in the “average.” I stunk at math and hated science, but reading? I loved reading. I felt like I should have tested right into those higher levels. It didn’t make sense.

I didn’t go to grad school until I was in my fifties and felt the sting of both not having read the classics and not being “up” on even recent authors. So I made my list of the must-reads and began to work my way through it.

Now I read voraciously, as if trying to make up for lost time. Which I am. But, again, why? It gets back to that feeling of knowing¸ of learning. Is my life better for understanding the whaling culture explained to me (ad nauseum) in Moby Dick? Actually, yes, I think so. Do I have a better understanding of writing from studying The Old Man and the Sea and The Great Gatsby? I do indeed. Is my writing life inspired by the writing of Flannery O’Connor and  Ernest Hemingway and Anton Chekov? Yes.

In short, I read because it inspires me. Sometimes it is the grace of the writing. Sometimes it is the very encouragement I get to live better and be better and write better.

So tell me, what is it about reading that enthralls you?

5 thoughts on “Addicted to Reading

  1. When my mother passed, I went through the books she had hoarded for decades and discovered that some of them had never had the spines bent or the pages cracked open. Books are not things. They hold something, some indefinable part of whoever put words on paper.
    In the course of going through this hoarder’s pile of untouched books, I found a first edition of Henry Miller’s ‘Colossus of Maroussi’. DAMN! If I could just meet that level of directness, I might say I could write! I found a two-volume 1853 printing of Elizabeth Barrett Browning’s poems. Must have belonged to my great-grandfather. A copy of Joseph Conrad’s ‘Tales of Hearsay’. An old, leather-jacketed copy of ‘Sleepy Hollow’. A full, if small, volume of short stories by Lord Dunsany. Holy cow! An 1853 complete compilatin of Sir Walter Scott’s work.
    A first edition of Ulysses S. Grant’s ‘Memoirs’, in handset type, is next, and since I used to do typesetting, I can almost certainly tell you which typeface, what point size, and how many points of leading separate the lines. Is it 14 on 16, or 14 on 18? Hmmm… get out the scale and check on it. But the typeface? Is it what we now call Times Roman? Could be. Now I have to look up the old names for metal typefaces.
    Unread, untouched, unexposed to a reader’s eyes until I got my hands on them, they are MINE, MINE, MINE!!!
    Oh, yes, I do have reissued copies of books like ‘The Outermost House’ (Henry Beston) and ‘Out Of Eden’ by C.S. Lewis. I seldom buy books I don’t intend to read. But to let them linger, unopened and ignored for nearly or far more than a century is beyond my comprehension.
    It’s like ignoring a chocolate sundae with extra chocolate sauce and piles of whipped cream.
    Hog heaven is in my small but very real library.

  2. We are in the process of downsizing, and what painful decisions as we mull over which books to give away or sell. It’s like giving away one of your children! I have been inspired by these books, laughed and cried, and lived through a gamut of emotions through each of these, my “friends.” Sometimes books recharge my emotional battery; other times they help me escape life’s pressures for a while. Was it Emily Dickinson who said, “There is no frigate like a book”? I agree. Where would we be without books to stretch our imaginations and lift us above the common in life?

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