Reading jag

When I was young and fancy-free (read "living at home with my mom doing the laundry and the cooking and cleaning) I used to read incessantly. We lived a mile from one of the best libraries in America: the Enoch Pratt Free Library in Baltimore--Branch 26--and I took full advantage of its proximity. I always had a stack of books at the ready, waiting for me to dip into them. I also had a deadline, as the borrowing period was about two weeks, as I recall. Ten books in two weeks translated to about a day and a half per book..pretty tough when I had to fit in things like school and stuff as well. But, somehow, there were very few books that didn't get read before I trucked them back to the library. (My mother would probably chime in that there were quite a few OTHER things that fell by the wayside, however.)



Anyway, it seems that the older I got (and the more complex life became) the more my reading declined, being relegated now to the never-never land between washing the dinner dishes and falling asleep. This period seems to be getting shorter every year, and I'm not sure if we're eating later or falling asleep earlier. In any event, the books are piling up, along with the newspapers and magazines and recipe clippings and email and other electronic subscriptions.



Now, with retirement either knocking at the door or amazingly, inside already, I find that I'm reading more, and moreover, reading differently. You have to understand that--all my life--I have been an indiscriminate reader. Books, newspapers, metro ads, cereal boxes, comic books, labels, those little tray liners at McDonalds...all were fair game. If it had words on it, I would read it. I read the way gluttons ate--because it was there, whether or not it had any nutritive value. I read for amusement, information, to pass the time, to hide from other people (I was a shy person, down to my very bones), to have something to talk about, to know something other people didn't...



Now, while some residue of that lack of discrimination remains (for example, reading on plane trips to avoid thinking about that strange thumping noise in the wing or the turbulence that has me wondering if my will is up to date) I read less often, but with greater attention. Is this poem in the New Yorker worth copying for my files? What should we not miss on our trip to Italy? What does a new grandmother need to know? And of course, the endless email-blog-google parade of addictive information, without which I might have a life away from my laptop...There is so much I have yet to learn that I go on great galloping reading jags when I do have the time, and plow through book after book until I can read no more...

So, in the midst of all this sturm und drang, I read a review of a book by and about an author--an author, mind you!--who had a minor stroke that robbed him of his ability to read. Now, I have thought, on occasion, what it might be like if I lost my sight, or hearing (maybe I already have, to some degree), mobility, and any number of things. But reading has always been a constant, a sine qua non of my existence. What would I do if suddenly words were just random squiggles, beyond comprehension? How could I function, understanding that there was meaning there, but just out of my reach? Can you write if you can't read? And if you (understandably) can't do either, how do you absorb, remember, make sense of the world and its information?

If I can draw any conclusion from this morass, it might be that my life as a reading junkie has served me well thus far, and further, that reading deprivation might well be one of the deeper circles of hell for someone like me. There are a lot worse things than having stacks of books and magazines in every corner. They are a tangible sign that my brain is alive and well and functioning; what more could I ask of my life?