Mother

Books I Must Read – Or Not.

I read about sixty or seventy books a year, a little better than one a week.  This includes heavy tomes of 1000+ pages and light whodunits that can be devoured on a rainy afternoon. For purposes of calculation let’s round the number off to sixty-five.  Now say I live to my father’s age of 97; that means I can read 65 x 26 =  1690  more books, not allowing for a slowing of my mental processes or carelessness crossing the street. 

It’s not enough, and it’s about time I made every book count.  Annette read War and Peace and thought it was wonderful. She said Tolstoy is the only author who can get her to enjoy a battle scene.  She thinks I’ll love it, but I haven’t started it yet. I haven’t finished The Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire. In fact, I’ve only gotten through the first volume and have two more to go.  No fair calling each volume a book either. I’ve got to read to the last page or it doesn’t count.  Burton’s translation of The Book of a Thousand Nights and a Night is also three volumes and I’m only on page 266 of volume I. 

I finished Proust’s Remembrance of Things Past – read the whole thing.  Looking back I have only vague impressions of the book.  Someone recommended that you race through it and then go back and savor it.  Does that mean it’s only half read?  There’s a new translation in print, available in seven volumes with a more literal rendering of the French title In Search of Lost Time. I could try that. 

Then there’s Ulysses.  I heard that one does not read Ulysses; one rereads it, so I read it twice. Maybe three times is the charm.  I’m settling for reading a page or two at random when I walk by it on the shelf. 

Nowadays everyone talks about rereading the books of your youth.  Perhaps I was too immature in high school to really appreciate David Copperfield and should go back and see what I missed.  Then there are the books I really loved.  I really should read John Steinbeck’s Cannery Row one more time before I die. 

There are a lot of books I need to get to if I’m to consider myself well-read.  I was looking at someone’s list of must-read books, and it was topped by the Bible.  I’ve read a lot of it, but I can’t check it off. There are parts of the Old Testament that do not call out to me from the shelf, and I’ve attempted “The Book of Revelation” a few times, but keep dropping out.

On the same list is Washington Square.  So far the only Henry James I’ve been able to enjoy was The Turn of the Screw, which isn’t as terrifying as “The Book of Revelation,” but is scary enough.  Am I now mature enough to appreciate Washington Square?  It remains to be seen. 

But, come to think of it, there isn’t going to be a test.  There’s not even going to be anyone to be impressed.  Casually mentioning at a cocktail party that you’re reading Sophocles doesn’t endear you to your fellow drinkers.  The book that has given me the most delight so far this year is Where the Mountain Meets the Moon by Grace Lin.  It’s actually a children’s book of 48 chapters, 278 pages with lovely illustrations in the Chinese manner.  My daughter gave it to me for Christmas knowing I’d love it.  I don’t know if it will become a classic, but like Alice in Wonderland, it will stand rereading many, many times.  There are still some mysteries and thrillers in the pile waiting to be read.

My conclusion is that junk food is tasty, but after eating it for a while you crave healthier fare. There is a time for french fries and a time for brown rice.  (I think that’s from “Ecclesiastes.”) I’m going to let my cravings be my guide.  The heck with being well read.