What do you read for?
I wrote in my book journal mid-2023 about Stoner by John Williams (very very good book by the way):
Another thing the author said that affected me was that he thought that literature is not to be studied and understood, and rather experienced and enjoyed. Of course that’s ironic because this book feels sad!! But I agree that it should be experienced and I did. I do try and understand books, of what it means to the author or myself and yeah I suppose I don’t enjoy them sometimes when I’m stuck pointing out how stupid the books are. Which brings me to another realization that I have been pondering on for a while. At some point I considered literature, to shorten it, an effective study of life, of course that’s not all it is, but for brevity I’ll keep it at that. The thing is, I found that it’s a way for me to understand worlds and people because it’s difficult for me to do so in real life. And I worry that not only am I taking out the fun in some books, I am also overflowing myself w/life that I am not supposed to encounter so early and that I should experience these reflections from actual people instead of being “quietly resigned.” I’m not sure how this affects my favourite hobby, but I’ll probably try to read more stupid (wow I sound so harsh and snobbish, I’m not, I’m also stupid) YA’s or soulless romcoms.
Reading was encouraged in me as a child because it was “going to make me smarter.” My father is alright with (over)spending, so long as it is in either food or books because I am happy and I am learning. Beginning in this hobby at a young age disallowed me now to trace my motivations that called me to it. As I age along with my reading, I begin to question: what for?
Well, now there are multiple answers to that. I read different books for different reasons. I choose books that pique my interest, that I have been recommended, or something almost wholly unfamiliar to myself which would leave me either irritated or surprised by the time that I close it for good. In some cases, I would challenge myself to go beyond amusement or habit and attempt difficult, highly praised books to practice my appreciation in the study of the art.
But most often, I open a book for no significant reason at all, but simply so I could. Among the many things I could say about stories and language, the simple act of reading them stands out. It will sit you down and require your effort to gain its fruit; it speaks for and to you; it, by its nature, reshapes your very being. You are the host and the witness.
But in the deepest I can reach, what I find in all my reading is Life.
Life. Is that too much? Too serious? Nerdy? Pretentious. Obviously written by a recluse? Does it matter? It doesn’t matter. Read for fun. For curiosity. Read for joy and delusion. Escape. Read to learn. Whatever it is, just read to read.