Thank you for reading…
“Outside of a dog, a book is a man’s best friend. Inside of a dog, it’s too dark to read.” — Groucho Marx
Those of you who follow me on Instagram will know that I read a reasonable amount.
Not a ridiculous amount, I’m not one of these people that claims to read 100 books a year and prides themselves on not having a TV (although when people say that I always want to ask Joey’s question, “what does all your furniture point at?” A reference they presumably wouldn’t get).
Over the last few years, I’ve read between 25 and 30 books a year (more this year because, y’know, 2020). I have a ballpark figure because I’ve started making lists of what I read. And I’ve started making lists because when people ask me for ideas, I can never remember what I’ve read.
I’ll admit I do take pride in burrowing down the archive to find something people will like when I am asked for recommendations. It doesn’t always work — I recently recommended a book to my brother and his review was:
“I ‘m going to throw this book in the bin.”
I like being a person who reads, mostly because I like reading but also because it comes with a certain kudos from others. When I talk to (/at) people about books, they often sadly say things like “I should read more” or “I only ever read when I’m on holiday.” These types of comments are delivered forlornly, with great regret of a life wasted watching Netflix. Why is that? Why do we hold reading in such high regard? I mean, yes, it appeals to my ego for people to think of me as ‘a Reader’ but the last thing anybody needs is for me to get a bigger ego…
There is no great secret to it — I make time to read because I like reading. I read on the way to work, I read before bed, if it’s a nice day I’ll go and read on my lunch, if I have a quiet Sunday morning I’ll make coffee and pick up my book. It seems to me people don’t really like reading so they don’t make time for it. Then they beat themselves up about it — but why punish yourself like that?
I used to play video games fairly regularly — I was a big fan of the Assassin’s Creed franchise — but over the last few years I have hardly played a minute. What happened was the games kept getting bigger; there were more areas to explore, more quests to complete, more apparel to shop for. On several occasions I found myself sitting down with 20 or 30 minutes to spare and spending almost all that time riding a virtual horse through a virtual forest to get to a virtual town. I might as well have actually gone horse riding. By the time I had reached my destination I didn’t have time to do any of the challenges and therefore never progressed in the game.
I was left in some sort of equestrian purgatory — forever carrying out the only acceptable type of online grooming. Basically, for me, the game should have been called Stable Boy’s Creed. A noble profession, sure, but probably not a bestseller. (Although, there is a very popular game called Goat Simulator, so I don’t know…)
And so, I got bored and stopped playing video games. Now, when people talk about gaming I don’t morosely drop my head or stare into the middle distance… ‘I used to play once…’ I mutter. A single tear falls down my cheek as I think of my horse, Mr Cloppers, left to fend for himself in the virtual wilderness.
I understand that reading can be a bit of a challenge, but that is partly what I enjoy about it. My bookcase is spattered with ‘the classics’ like Jonathan Swift, Oscar Wilde, Franz Kafka and Jack Kerouac. For the most part, I am not sure why I bothered. Kerouac especially. What a load of rubbish. Apparently, he was famed for never editing his work and all I can say is there is a reason that technique hasn’t caught on.
Even then, there are some books that are too “literary” for me. There was a book nominated for the 2019 Man Booker Prize called Ducks, Newburyport. It is 1,000 pages long and almost all one sentence. No thank you, that sounds awful. Reading a book like that would cause me some quite serious anxiety. Regardless of how much I enjoy a book, I always feel like I’m missing out on something else.
It’s like being at a music festival and knowing another band you like is on at the same time. Would I be having more fun doing that? I call it Glastonbury Syndrome.
Glastonbury Syndrome (which my doctor fiancée points out isn’t a syndrome, clearly I’m not as smart as I thought) is the reason I have rushed some books, given up on others, and generally refuse to re-read anything. It is the reason I sometimes stop and remind myself that it isn’t just about getting through and chalking a classic off the list, filling another slot on the bookcase or putting another post on Instagram.
Reading is as much about taking a moment for yourself as anything else. And it should be enjoyable, not a chore. Reading is about the journey a book takes you on — sometimes beautiful, sometimes moving, sometimes hilarious… rarely a waste of time.
Unless that book is On The Road, which is absolute garbage.
