This
year, I’m trying to be more intentional in engaging people about the books
we’re reading. I’m asking for reading recommendations, and joining them in
conversation about makes a book enjoyable enough to want to share it with
others. My goal is to read, deeply and attentively, fifty book recommendations
while in my 50’s. (It would be wonderful if I could read fifty in one year, but
that seems unlikely, given the realities and demands of life right now.) Even
though this book wasn’t one of the books that a friend recommended, it made a
perfect work to read early in the “50 at 50 Project”, as I’ve come to think of
it.
Actually,
I don’t recall how this book came to be on my reading list, but it has been
there a long time. Maybe someone really did recommend it to me, and I’ve
forgotten the details. Perhaps I came across it on the shelves of a bookstore
back in the late 90’s, though it doesn’t seem like a book that would have spent
much time in stores, to be honest. It seems like the kind of book with a limited
appeal, but many small, beautiful things don’t catch the attention and
imagination of the masses.
Schwartz
indulges herself in an engaging mental exercise, asking herself why she reads,
and how reading has shaped who she is. The book progresses the way a long
conversation with a friend would, more like a meandering walk through a garden
rather than a forced march from one point to another. Along the way, certain
ideas are touched upon and barely developed, and then circled back to again
later for further discussion and illumination.
Some of
the questions she touches upon are how we choose the books we read, whether we
read deeply from one author, or move between authors, whether we read according
to a program or syllabus, or whether we let the spirit move us from book to
book. (In her discussion of the different types of reading, she reminded me of
a novel I attempted to write years ago, in which an obsessive bibliophile
expounds upon his theory of the different types of readers, which he named
Epicures, Eunuchs, Whores, and Priests. Schwartz isn’t as coarse.)
She also
touches upon the different ways that the same person may read. When reading
solely for information, we approach a book differently than we do when reading
for the joy of the experience.
When
speaking of “joy”, I feel compelled to quote John Stuart Mill: “It is better to
be a human being dissatisfied than a pig satisfied; better to be Socrates
dissatisfied than a fool satisfied. And if the fool, or the pig, are of a
different opinion, it is because they only know their side of the question.” I
experience joy when stretching myself to be most fully human, which means
reading challenging works that stimulate my intellect. The joys of Socrates are
different from the joys of a fool, or a pig, and while I’m no Socrates, I still
find myself drawn to books that require more of me, and bring more to me.
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