Monday, September 1, 2008

Vices of the literary kind

Bluestem, why is your house a disaster? Why can’t your second child talk? Why aren’t you spending more time volunteering at the schools? What the hell do you do all day!?

Well. I have a confession. I am a reader. I read. It’s an addiction. It’s a problem. Recently, I was reading Nora Ephron’s I Feel Bad about My Neck: and Other Thoughts on Being a Woman when I came across this beautiful passage:

When I pass a bookshelf, I like to pick out a book from it and thumb through it. When I see a newspaper on the couch, I like to sit down with it. When the mail arrives, I like to rip it open. Reading is one of the main things I do. Reading is everything. Reading makes me feel I’ve accomplished something, learned something, become a better person. Reading makes me smarter. Reading gives me something to talk about later on. Reading is the unbelievably healthy way my attention deficit disorder medicates itself. Reading is escape, and the opposite of escape; it’s a way to make contact with reality after a day of making things up, and it’s a way of making contact with someone else’s imagination after a day that’s all too real. Reading is grist. Reading is bliss.

Which is lovely. And makes me feel much much better about my relationship with reading, which I often feel guilty about.
However, for real Reading about Reading Pleasure, I heartily recommend Ex Libris: Confessions of a Common Reader by Anne Fadiman. In fact, I plan to read it again tonight. It's been a few years. It's the only book I've ever bought multiple copies of to give as gifts to all the readers in my life.

1 comment:

Baywatch said...

nice passage. i'm not into tattoos, but that's a prime candidate should i ever get inked.