Why Do I Read?

A Guest Blog by Philip Meers

It is a sunny day as I write these words. The conservatory doors are open. The wind in the nearby trees sounds like waves on a shingle beach, a sound effect made more real by the occasional gull crying as it swoops over my house, which is as far from the sea as you can get.

I am retired. A free spirit. What better day to go out than this? Sunshine, blue sky, pleasantly warm. Yet here I am, sitting at home. What has kept me in? Well, I suppose that I could say I needed to do some laundry. It’s out there now drying beautifully. I could have put it out to dry and then taken myself off and enjoyed the lovely weather. No, the laundry is not an excuse.

It’s certainly not the need to do some chores. I’m very careful replacing things exactly so that the dust doesn’t show. It will last another day, or two, or three, or even until I next have a visitor. Dont get me wrong, I don’t live in a tip, but when the mood to read is on me, dusting slips down my list of priorities (if I’m ever murdered, there will be no mystery, with my last breath I’ll write the name of the murderer in the dust).

It’s not even my natural stinginess that keeps me in. Niggardly I may be, but I like to make the most of my English Heritage membership, and it’s not far to Kenilworth Castle, but, here I sit.

Now, I’m sure, that as a follower of For Reading Addicts, you will not be shocked by my real reason. However, and I’m equally certain that you all know people whose response would be like this, there are those who would be horrified to know that I stayed in, that I wasted a good chance to go out, because I needed to read.

That is it, pure and simple, I needed to read. Not wanted to. Not decided to. Not felt like. It was an unignorable need, a desire, as necessary as breathing. I don’t expect any of you to be shocked by my statement, after all, if you were shocked why are you following For Reading Addicts? I suppose that there are some of you who feel twinges of envy. You got up with the knowledge that you would go to work, or have someone to look after, whereas I could lie in bed and think “today, I shall read”.

Yes, I know that I could have gone on a trip and read whilst I was out. I could have taken a picnic, maybe to a favourite spot on the river bank just outside Stratford upon Avon, or even to the grounds of Kenilworth Castle. I’ve done both many times. But today I needed to Read. This is not a day just to read, it needs an uppercase ‘R’. That means my favourite chair, in the conservatory facing the garden, even though I’ll probably not look up. It means that on the table next to me will be a tray with a pot of camomile tea, a matching cup and saucer (yes, it has to match, otherwise even my most desperate urge to read will be disturbed by the mismatch), and who knows, maybe a plate of sandwiches.

This is a day for serious reading. I don’t mean reading serious things, I mean a day of nothing but reading. Not for me today the picking up of my book, the reading of a few pages and then doing something else. It means sitting here book in hand and realising I can no longer see the words because it’s gone dark. It is the sort of day when you realise that ‘just one more chapter’ has made you finish the book.

Now I know that the more observant of you have done your Poirot impersonation (I’m currently reading the Poirot short stories) and said to yourselves that I’m telling fibs. That I’m not reading. Well true, but writing about reading and talking about reading are almost as good as actually reading (wouldn’t life be grand if reading a recipe book was as good as eating?).

It’s not my fault of course. I want to Read. I need to Read. However, Shan mentioned another blog, and the thought got stuck in my head, and then decided to play British Bulldog with the words on the page (sorry any non-British readers, British Bulldog is a rather vicious playground game played by, usually sadistic, boys). Shan’s probably innocent request has been the Bulldog to my reading, and the words of Agatha Christie are in various stages of muddy and bloody, though as yet none are broken.

So, in my convoluted, and best teacher fashion, I have, at last (muttered some of you) reached the point of my blog. Why do I need to read?

Yesterday was a good example of how much books and reading mean to me. I had a trip out to Bolsover Castle (getting the most out of my English Heritage membership), a place I’d not visited before. It certainly has the ‘wow factor’, beautiful architecture, lovely tapestries, interesting decoration in many rooms, and one of the most stunning locations. However, although I duly admired these treasures my responses were coloured by my reading habits. One small room had empty shelves (weep not dear reader) and my mind filled them with my own books and placed a leather wingback chair and matching stool in a cosy corner. In another room I had built, in my imagination, a window seat so that I could ignore the glorious view but have good light for reading. Outside, I was picturing comfortable benches creating cosy outdoor reading areas. Some of the finest that England has to offer was sublimated before the need to read.

I am fairly certain that my response to a beautiful place is not unique. I believe it also, to be a harmless aberration, but I also recognise it to be all consuming. No doubt you, the reader, can understand because you are, yourself, a compulsive reader. Would you be relieved if the evening plans, made by someone else, fell through because it then meant you could read? Do you whip out a book or Kindle at the first opportunity?

In my previous blog I considered how I became a reading addict and bibliomane. What I didn’t really look at was the why. What is it about reading that means I have to do it. Before I had a Kindle, which now goes everywhere with me, I would read everything around me. In the supermarket queue I would read the labels. In the doctor’s waiting room I’d read the posters and leaflets. Do you know the feeling when your brain craves words? I hope that you do, otherwise maybe I really am crazy. If there are words, I have to read them. In fact, if there are words I cannot ignore them. Words are magnets for my eyes, I’m drawn to them irresistibly.

I’ve previously described how my mother influenced my reading, making me an early and avid reader. While classmates were on ‘cat, mat, sat’, I was in the corner of the classroom, designated the reading corner, reading proper books. Not the big picture with five or six words. I was already reading sentences and chapters. My books were from the school library, and it wasn’t long before I’d out read the infant section and moved on to the junior section. A hero of mine is Matilda Wormwood, not because of her defeat of Miss Trunchbull, but because of the scenes in the film (yes, I know, blasphemy to watch the film of the book) where she takes her little truck to the library. Like Matilda, I have to read, and, also like Matilda, it began early.

Why was I so affected by words? I suppose that it’s time for some research.

My first port of call was Why to Read where I found Ten Reasons Why You Should Read More Books. Some interesting ideas here, so sit up and pay attention, there maybe a test later…ooops, sorry, reversion there to teacher mode

• To develop your verbal abilities
• Improves Your Focus and Concentration
• Readers Enjoy The Arts and Improve The World
• It Improves Your Imagination
• Reading Makes You Smarter
• It Makes You Interesting and Attractive
• It Reduces Stress
• It Improves Your Memory
• To Discover and Create Yourself
• For Entertainment

Well, as Victoria Wood said, beat me on the bottom with the Woman’s Weekly! Doesn’t that all sound laudable and somewhat schoolmarmish?

Numbers seven and ten I can definitely relate to. When I’m stressed, nothing is better than a book for calming me down (well except for a cup of hot sweet tea, which as we Brits know is the cure all for everything). What better way to escape the less pleasant aspects of reality and being (or trying to be) an adult, than to escape into the alternative universe to be found in a book? Number ten goes without comment. Well maybe not completely without a comment as there are, so I’m told, people who read not for pleasure but to impress others, poor deluded fools. Thinking back over various comments I have read on For Reading Addicts, I feel confident enough to assume that my fellow Addicts will agree with me on those two. The rest though?

I suppose my vocabulary has been expanded by my reading, but that is more a consequence of, rather than a cause for reading. My verbal abilities are, I think, natural. Donkeys have usually run from me in fear of losing their hind leg. I’ve never been short of a word or twenty, even as a child, so no, this is not what keeps me coming back to my books.

I suppose that improving focus and concentration is possible. However, might it not be that people with highly developed focus and concentration are natural readers? In my years as a teacher I met many whose minds had all the focus of a butterfly, and they were rarely comfortable reading. They could never keep at it long enough for it to help them concentrate. Perhaps if you needed to learn to be focused it might help, but give me a book and I’d possibly miss the final trump (no, not Donald, the Biblical one) because I was so focused on my book, so again, not the answer.

Do you think that you improve the world? When I read I’m usually oblivious to the world. I’d probably only notice a natural, or even an unnatural disaster if it knocked over my cup of camomile. Maybe I don’t read the right books to turn into an eco warrior. I’d definitely never have made it to the barricades, in the best Les Mis manner, if I’d had to pass a book shop. Improve the world? I don’t even manage the dusting if I’ve a good book, so out goes that one.

Imagination is an interesting point. Maybe this will be the one. Does reading make you imaginative, or do imaginative people read? If you have no imagination would you want to read fiction? Well, the two are certainly linked, but in a chicken and egg sort of way. Apparently, as a young child I was imaginative, and as I have got older my imagination has got less.

My imaginary friends went long ago (though it’s possible they left their voices behind) and I’m fairly sure that my dad’s box of bits and bobs would no longer keep me occupied for hours. It could be argued that books have replaced my imagination, though I do have some vivid, and interesting, day dreams. Indeed, I have been known to daydream about being in Rivendell or Lothlórien, and even Oz and Narnia. My reading has certainly influenced my day dreams, though as a side effect rather than a conscious decision. Again, this is not what I read for.

Does reading make me smarter? Well, it gives me a lot of information, and also the ability to impress others with my aposite comments and prodigiously expansive vocabulary. However, I have a feeling that comes from being a natural smart arse, and that, just like E F Benson’s Lucia, if I didn’t read avidly, I would get my literary comments from the Times Literary Supplement and my posh words from a good dictionary. Do you feel you are smart because you read, or do you read because you are already smart? I suppose it depends what you read. I certainly read to increase my knowledge, biographies, history books (I was a history teacher) and even the odd science or maths book (The Magical Maze: Seeing the World Through Mathematical Eyes, by Ian Stewart fascinated me), but largely I read fiction. Does fiction make me smart? I’ve no idea.

I’ve been lucky over the years to have met many people who have been interesting, and also others who have attractive personalities, which is what I think this point means (I certainly don’t think reading would make me attractive visually, if I wanted that I’d need a plastic surgeon – pause for cries of “No! You’re gorgeous!”…oh well please yourselves). Some of the most interesting people rarely read. They are too busy gaining experience first hand to have time to read. As for an attractive personality, what is that? I’m fairly sure that we would all have a different answer, and consequently the influence of reading would be negligible. Perhaps on this point others will disagree with me (my goodness, such arrogance, do I actually believe that you are with me on everything else I’ve written?). However, I think that if I’m going to be interesting it should be for me as a person, rather than based on what I read. There is a lot of comment around lately about learning empathy through reading, but I am not convinced. Is it another chicken and egg scenario (why is it never duck and egg?) where it could be that empathetic personalities get more from a book, or that a book make us more empathetic? I’m full of answers today, it’s just a pity most of them are “Don’t know” (I’m beginning to feel like Button Bright in the Oz books).

Well, I shall be modest after the previous section, and ask your opinion first. Do you think that reading improves your memory? I’m not convinced. Yes, I know that you will not be surprised about that by now. I could claim that I am the Devil’s Advocate (a brilliant book by Morris West, and I also loved Shoes of the Fisherman) but it’s probably just a natural talent for bloody mindedness. However it may be, I think that this is another chicken (or duck or even ostrich) and egg scenario. My late dad rarely read. He simply couldn’t keep track of a story because he had the memory of a goldfish, though that is, perhaps, an insult…to the goldfish. He could not read for long enough to improve his memory. Do people with better memories become readers? Does keeping track of all of the characters in a book mean you have a good memory to start with, or did it help you to get that good memory? I’m not doing very well. Again, I don’t know.

Finally, did I discover myself in a book? Have I created myself as, for example, a second Gandalf (well my hair is getting long enough, but I’ve not taken to wearing robes, and my magic is definitely iffy)? I’ll be honest, I don’t really understand what this one means. Maybe if I stuck to one genre it might work, but I’m a bit of a genre-tart. I’m not faithful and happily slope off into a corner with whatever catches my interest. You are as likely to find me reading Peter Pan (which I finished last week for the first time) as you are to catch me with The Great Gatsby (an August reread) or Bleak House (finished yesterday as a reread). Could I find myself in such disparate books? Have I absorbed something of each of the characters as I read their story? Had I chosen to read different books throughout my life, would I be a different person? Actually, I find this one a bit scary. If you only read Stephen King and his ilk (a lovely word that) then perhaps I don’t want you as a neighbour.

Well, my research, which included more than the above, has failed to explain my reading addiction. It certainly de-stresses me and it gives me a lot of pleasure, but there has to be more. I’m lucky, I’m retired and my life has very reduced levels of stress, but I don’t desire reading any less. As a child I chose books over ball games. As a teenager I struggled through wind and rain, snow and ice (I sound like a postman) to get to the library twice a week at least. On day trips with my parents I would always have at least two books, and preferably three, in my bag. As a student I rushed to the study carrels to claim one for the day, and I’d be there whenever I wasn’t in class, reading, not for study but for pleasure. As a young teacher I was at first considered odd by the pupils, because they would catch me reading when they arrived for lessons (usually on a desk at the back of the room cross legged like a literary Buddha, oh the joys of youth, if I tried that now I’d never be able to stand). These days, I never leave the house without my Kindle, the joy of carrying so many books in one light weight object is pure heaven to me.

So, I am no closer to solving the mystery. Why is reading so necessary for me? Why, if I can’t read, do I become grumpy? I’ve read other For Reading Addict followers who have said the same. I know I’m not just a sad weirdo (well not sad, but maybe just a bit weird…ok, stop smirking, a lot weird) because I’ve met others like me. A day without reading is, for me, a day without life. As the time approaches when I can read (once I’ve fed my Tribes, bunnies, budgies and fish) it is a physical craving. I feel a lift in my mood. I get to my favourite reading spot and have a warm feeling inside as I pick up my book or Kindle.

I’m sure that most of you recognise the symptoms. That pull of the written word is strong, irresistible and all consuming. If we are not reading, many of us wish that we were. I recently started my sixth year of retirement. Someone, not retired, asked me if I was really bored by now, but didn’t want to admit it. They cannot believe that I’m not bored, but they, poor soul, are not a reader, and were unconvinced that I could happily spend hours reading. They even asked why I bothered. I couldn’t answer them, and, even though I’ve spent time reading up online I feel no closer to an answer. I shall end, therefore (probably to loud cheers from anyone who has got this far with me), by considering the apocryphal words of George Mallory (boo, hiss – sorry, I was in Shackleton House at school, and old habits die hard). When asked why he wanted to climb Everest (the mountain, not the double glazing company), he is supposed to have replied “because it’s there”.

So, Philip, why do you read?
Well, Philip, because the words are there.

Hmmmm! That’s not as snappy as Mallory perhaps, but, dear reader, it’s the best I can come up with. I don’t need a reason to read. I just read. I read because I simply cannot imagine not doing so.

Now if you can come up with a better reason, I’d love to hear it.