 The Confession I feel like I have to call it “the Confession” in stead of “a Confession” because for a lifelong passionate reader it is, hopefully, the one and only confession of this nature I ever make. Thus, the Confession is this: In 2010, I read a total of five books. Yes, you read that right. Five books in one year. And I skimmed one. The Lost Cyclist: The Epic Tale of an American Adventurer and His Mysterious Disappearance by David V. Herlihy, which initially looked exactly like something I would love—a forgotten man, history, adventure—proved to be . . . rather a dud. It drives me crazy when an author has such a fabulous story and doesn’t use it well. Sure, some parts were good but overall it proved a yawner. What a waste. The second book was Bill Bryson’s At Home: A Short History of Private Life. Now I like Bryson. He does get too self-absorbed at times, but overall his take on things he explores or knows is amusing and occasionally insightful. This book, unfortunately, is missing the one ingredient that has characterized all his previous ones—himself. It’s little more than a recitation of facts—some of them interesting—with little else. I got the feeling that his publisher put pressure on him to produce something as successful as A Short History of Nearly Everything, and he came up with an idea he could do quickly and as he said, “in carpet slippers.” Unfortunately for readers, he left himself out of the equation and produced a book that holds up only in bits and parts. The third book was the one I skimmed. When it came in I wasn’t even going to read Head Shot: The Science Behind the JFK Assassination by G. Paul Chambers. Why I picked this up I am not certain because although I was around at the time, and remember the massive public reaction, I was young and, frankly, more concerned with this new rock group called the Beatles who were making huge waves in the world of music—and scaring parents. But in bed, I picked it up off the nightstand one night and began reading, or more accurately skimming. No offense is intended to anyone who is still interested in this terrible event, but frankly, after these many decades, whatever happened, happened. The truth will likely never be known, and even if it could, what could be done about it? Nada. So my interest in the book was vague, at most. Which allowed me to zip through it over a couple of evenings without no emotional involvement at all and only passable interest despite the fine writing. The other two books that I read and finished were, thankfully, wonderful. Journey on the Estrada Real: Encounters in the Mountains of Brazil by Glenn Alan Cheney. A relatively short book, it nevertheless packs a powerful punch with its intense descriptions of how things were and how they are now. I like a book that puts me into the experience, as if I was part of him and of each one of the people he encountered. That seems to happen when the author doesn't travel as a writer with a book in mind much as he travels to discover and understand. Red Highways: A Liberal’s Journey into the Heartland by Rose Aguilar was the fifth book I completed, and in this case, happily. As a semi-liberal myself (though my social and political views tend to range widely), I was curious about what I might learn of those holding opposite views if I could set aside my own prejudices and feelings. I wanted to understand the people behind the views and their feelings behind their actions not on a large basis but on individual ones. And I have to say this book gave me that. The thing I dislike the most about strong political and social views is how much they polarize people so that the end result is essentially nothing. Now what I would like to see from the publisher is a book called “Blue Highways: A Conservative’s Journey into the Heartland of Liberalism.” I really think that someone with the same level of desire for understanding and communication could produce a book I would love to read. (And I decided that was such a fine idea I just now wrote to the publisher to suggest it.) But I didn’t just read five. I started more but for whatever reasons I didn’t finish them. With some I got no further than the first few pages not because they were bad but because it just wasn’t the right time for them. Other books captured my attention for longer, and two—Two Years Before the Mast and Two for the Road—were read nearly to the end. But I didn’t finish them—then or later. This disturbed me enough so I used my last column of 2010 to wonder what 2011 might bring me:More reading, I hope. One of the disappointments this year was the limited amount of reading I did. Even instituting a tradition of reading on the porch after work did not allow me to increase or even keep pace with the number of books I’ve read in previous years. It wasn’t just disturbing. I feel emotionally and mentally starved by missing the literary nutrition that has fed me all these years. That is definitely something to be corrected. Why bring this up now? Because I am pleased to report that in 2011, I have, as of January 23, completely read—not skimmed—more books than I did in the previous twelve months. And this year, I am for the first time, keeping a list of what I do read in each month. It should be an interesting document, and I look forward to finding out what my reading choices are and will be. Because I want to keep this going, I am not making notes on it beyond listing titles under each month. Some books are re-reads, while others will be published in earlier years. I am one of those people who don’t feel a need to read books as soon as they come out. (And waiting means I can often get discounted prices on used copies.) I still do write my “post-reading reviews” on the front free endpaper of each book as soon as I finish it but those are for my own purpose. Because they are for me, I might or might not share them at the end of the year. At any rate, here is what my list looks like so far, the books listed in the order they were read:
And for the first time in what feels like a very long time I feel satisfied. Well, more than satisfied. It’s that same feeling I get when I work out. A feeling of well-being, of fullness. Of a life being well lived. It’s as if I need to read to live, something I think all passionate readers have. Last year my father was asked by his doctors to cut out the prodigious amounts of salt he used, which he did. But his body—accustomed to those quantities since childhood—rebelled. It wasn’t that he found food bland, though he did, but that his body and his kidneys had lived so long with how much he salted food that cutting it out caused more damage than leaving it as it was. And in a similar way I think that is what happened to me with my severe lack of reading in 2010. With one of the major stabilizers gone from, my life had far more emotional downs than ups. I felt very off balance. I say that because today, having the books that I do under my belt I feel different. In alignment. Satisfied. And like a whole person. Perhaps that is what gave me the courage to move past the shame I felt and make The Confession. What happened in the past is now in the past. Now I am moving ahead not because I have to but because I want to. So if you will excuse me, I am headed back to my next choice—The Poisoner’s Handbook: Murder and the Birth of Forensic Medicine in Jazz Age New York—and then after that, who knows? Whatever looks good!Upcoming Book Festivals: The Pub House: Imaging Books & Reading: Of Interest: Until next week, read well, read often and read on!
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