I truly feel sorry for people who don’t read much … for whatever reason.
I have a friend who is dyslexic. She struggles, but read she does. It’s a load of work for her, so she gets a pass.
I honestly felt sorrow for classmates in Grades 1 and 2 who mangled meanings in rudimentary word-discovery readers. I knew then, these people would never experience reading for pleasure. Theirs would always have to be a visual/video world. They might never get lost in the wonders of a good novel or biographical tale.
I have a stack of 22 books lined up ready for my eyeballs. Their titles suggest I enjoy all classifications of literature, but I know my limitations. No Stephen Hawking musings in my library. Nor Stephen King’s (although I tried King’s clammy wanderings). My major regret is that I can’t speed read, or at least I can’t speed read with retention. In fact, I find myself re-reading fine passages in books and marveling at the author’s ability to wrestle me into their story.
Once I start a book, I insist on finishing it, even if it’s a clunker. I have broken that rule only twice. I believe as I advance in years, I’ll break it more often. There are too many excellent tomes out there that require devouring, so why would I spend time on books that don’t move me?
As a teenager, I had time for the traditional sports, and that included chasing girls. I still managed to read 50 to 60 novels a year. Now it’s six or seven, and no girl chasing.
I regret to report that I never took a chance on many of the classics. A Tale of Two Cities, for instance, is probably about Minneapolis and St. Paul for all I know. It’s the same for most of Charlie Dickens' stuff.
It took me 11 years to plow through Moby Dick. I started it in my Grade 9 year, borrowed from the local library and discovered it on my bookshelf 10 years later, while scouring through my things due to a promise I made my mother that I would finally clean out my old bedroom. I had bookmarked Page 120 (or thereabouts), so I finished the damn book. Spoiler alert, it’s about a big fish.
I have never read a book twice.
I have never read on a Kindle or e-reader, probably because I’m too lazy to involve myself in the intricacies of signing up to do whatever they’ll require me to do.
I have two borrowed books in that pile of 22. One is the property of Delha Ng and the other belongs to Jordan Baker, our moderately esteemed editor. I will return them following consumption, not before. I don’t like borrowing books, because of this need to return them … and forgetfulness (see M. Dick, above).
I will use the public library on occasion, but generally speaking, there is already enough material circulating around my world in the form of magazines, newspapers and books to keep me occupied for decades. I need not add to the piles.
I started this column with the intention of discussing the great and wonderful novels I have read over the years, but have now run out of space.
The big fish book was OK. Stephen King’s stuff’s just too creepy, and that Charlie Dickens … well, I just don’t know. Now Billy Shakespeare, there’s a wordy guy with lots to say. I bet he wasn’t restricted to a few hundred words in a newspaper column because he …
