Chekhov’s Mistess

On Reading

I love to read. That of course, is not particularly revelatory, but the truth is that I’m a compulsive reader. I’m one of those people that reads everything I can get my hands on: I read the top, bottom, front and back of cereal boxes; I read manuals cover to cover, brochures down to the disclaimers, and any other banal piece of literature I can get my hands on, if that’s all that is around. When I read a book, I read the copyright page, the colophon, if there is one, basically every single word in the book. Rarely do I skim, and conversely, I will re-read huge swaths if I think that I missed a concept or don’t remember something.

I don’t leave the house without reading material and often have to sneak something past my wife who thinks it incredibly unsocial to be concerned about reading when with others. But for me, it’s a security blanket of sorts to know that I will always have something to peruse if the opportunity presents itself. I often cut out magazine articles (I have at least 20 different subscriptions) to carry along, or if I have room, I take one or two books that I’m currently reading. I typically read concurrently, one novel and one non-fiction book (often related to the novel or novelist), poetry most every day, an array of magazine articles and newspapers on the web.

I’ve been like this, to one degree or another, as long as I can remember. I once rear-ended a car in front of me because I couldn’t stop reading something while I was driving – I stopped that little habit. Somehow still, I find the vast sea of books and information exasperatingly beyond my grasp. It doesn’t take long in a bookstore before I grow anxious about all those vaunted tomes I’ve yet to read. But still, I find my self in bookstores more than I should admit.

Sometimes, an idea will occur to me while reading one book and from that, I start another, and then I get overwhelmed by all my current reading. To add to this glut, I’m a slow reader, and since I often re-read passages and write annotations in my books, I can read excruciatingly slow, which leads me to occasionally leave a book unfinished. That hurts. It’s not usually a reflection on the book, but merely my lack of attention. Then the unfinished book sits on the shelf, miffed as I go on to other books, awaiting my return, which it knows in its heart, could be years. But I never forget.

This is why many of my friends wonder why I don’t read too many current authors. I like to say that I only read dead authors. Partly true. Life is too short to spend time, time that gets more valuable as it passes, reading anything less than earth shattering. I once read a book by Alan Lightman (a living author!), who wrote the absolutely fabulous book “Einstein’s Dreams.” He wrote another book called “The Diagnosis,” and I hated it. I found it so profoundly disappointing to read a book by a good author that was, in my opinion, simply bad, that I didn’t think I would ever get over it. The memory stings within me as I write this. So, while you may think it’s safe to mostly read classics, and that is true, I find it an exalting process of discovery, and until that supply runs out (could it ever?), that is where most of my reading energy will go – there and some cereal boxes or brochure disclaimers.

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About this Post

• Posted by: Bud Parr
• Date: May 12, 2004
• Filed Under:
  Song of Myself: Diary

• Comments:0
• Links to this Post: Technorati

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