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Not many of us get through school, not to mention college, without developing our own imperatives and superstitions around reading and the feelings associated with it, whether these are feelings of pleasure, affection, guilt, dread, anxiety, or simple indifference. As we grow older, these emotions tend to linger in our private lives, whether we continue to read avidly, or recoil at the very sight of a book. No one has more insight into the confluence between reading and memory than Marcel Proust, and no one has written so well on the subject, or at such length. In this passage from Time Regained, the narrator describes the effect of this synergy:
A book which we read at a certain period does not merely remain forever conjoined to what existed around us; it remains also faithfully united to what we ourselves then were and thereafter it can be handled only by the sensibility, the personality that were then ours. If, even in thought, I pick up from the bookshelf François le Champi, immediately there rises within me a child who takes my place, who alone has the right to spell out the title François le Champi, and who reads it as he read it once before, with the same impression of what the weather was like then in the garden, the same dreams that were then shaping themselves in his mind about the different countries and about life, and the same anguish about the next day.
How well do you remember what you read? Think about a work of fiction you've read recently—what scenes, images or characters come to mind? Memories of reading can often be far more complex than memories of “real” events, since they combine “factual” memories—like your personal situation and social context at the time of reading—with the power of an aesthetic experience. So when you think of a book that had a profound impact on you, you often can't help but remember what you were doing and where you were when you first read it. Now think of a book that had no impact on you at all. Can you even remember one?
Do you see visual images of the story you're reading as it unfolds? If so, do you base the characters on people you know—friends, family, famous people, or composites of all three, as in dreams? Or are they totally new? Are the images in color, or black and white? Are they consistent, or do they come and go? For some, reading fiction can engage other sensory responses besides the visual, like smell, sound, taste, and ... well, I'm sure we've all had the experience of being sexually aroused by a fictional scene, or a character description. Some people say they have rich sensory experiences, as intense and realistic as an IMAX movie, that radiate outward from a verbal text, while others, including those who've been blind from birth, have experiences that are more conceptual. I wonder if these images are retained, stored in our memory long after we've finished reading, and whether, by focusing carefully, we're bringing them back to the surface of consciousness, or whether we're actually creating them afresh every time.
Some people regularly make friends with fictional characters, or even fall in love with them, or with their authors. Some can't prevent themselves from skipping to the end to find out what happens. Some feel compelled to read especially resonant passages aloud, to themselves, or to others. Have you ever had the strange experience of reading a book you hate, but you still can't stop reading it? Have you ever read a book that left a bitter taste in your mouth? What about a book you love to death, but nobody else seems to get?
In order to make sense of these emotions, you need to think carefully about your reading habits. Ask yourself the following questions, and compare your responses to those of the 56 readers I surveyed (equal parts British and American, men and women, academics and “laymen”).
(1) What book are you currently reading?
Of my 56 respondents, only one reported that he wasn't reading a book at the moment, though a few people could give me a title but not an author. About 16 said they were reading two or more books at the same time; 14 were reading history or biography, and the rest were reading works of fiction, mostly by contemporary bestselling authors like Dan Brown, J.K. Rowling, Dean Koontz, Stephen King, and Walter Mosley.
(2) How do you decide what book to read next?
Thinking about this question is a good way to discover how flexible or schematic you are in your reading habits. I know it's a generalization, but women seem far more easygoing than men in this respect (and in most other respects too, for that matter), but then, every regular reader has his or her own system of reading, however unacknowledged or unconscious. Think about it. Do you go for a long time between books, waiting for something to strike your fancy, or to be given something to read by friends or family, or do you go immediately from one book to the next? Do you make reading lists (in paper or in your head), and, if so, how strictly do you stick to them? Do you know exactly what you like, and stick to the work of particular authors, or a certain genre? Or maybe you never read anything but sword-and-sandal fiction, detective stories, literary “classics,” historical novels, or Harlequin romance. Do you go through binges? I do. I can recall, in the last couple of years, a true crime binge, a biography binge, a Philip Roth binge, and a binge on campus novels.
Twenty-two of my respondents said they rely on reviews in the Sunday papers, or recommendations from friends and family members. Eighteen said they just pick up whatever catches their eye in the bookshop or library, or on their bookshelves at home. The rest varied. Some people said they have a small group of favorite authors whose work they follow closely, buying each new book as soon as it comes out. Others said they have a bedside stack to work through, sometimes systematically, sometimes at random. (I always have a stack of around 10 books, and I'll almost never take them out of order, however tempting they may look—but then, I also have few qualms about giving up on a book if it doesn't engage me.) Some said they like to read books that correspond with their current situation—European novels while traveling in Europe, romance fiction when they're in love, and so on. Some said they visit bookstores to find something to read, picking up different books and reading their first pages; others pay more attention to price. For others, it's entirely a matter of serendipity—as one person put it, “a mysterious coalescence of urges and interests.”
(3) Do you always finish books, or do you give up on them? If you give up on them, how many pages does it usually take?
Out of the 56 readers I surveyed, only three said they never, ever gave up on a book (and I'm not sure I believe them). One commented: “I only start books I know I'm going to like;” another claimed, “even in high school, I read every assigned book cover to cover,” and the third said, “if I'm going to hate something, I want to hate it fully and thoroughly.” Everyone else admitted to giving up on books from time to time (though some confessed to feeling guilt about it), either because they find themselves struggling and losing interest, or because something more interesting comes along, or for other reasons (“I put it down for too long”; “It's due back at the library”; “I'll put them down and forget where I've put them”). Some people will give up after 10 pages or “one bad chapter,” others draw the line at three chapters, 30 to 60 pages, 150 pages, or “half-way.”
The last book I gave up on was Samuel Beckett's Molloy, which I added to my stack after my boyfriend enjoyed it so much. He went on to read the other works in the volume—Malone, and The Unnamable. I first gave up after about 60 pages, then a couple of days later I decided I'd try again, and made it through another 60 pages before conceding defeat. When I asked my readers to name a book they recall giving up on, titles mentioned more than once included Moby Dick (six), Don Quixote (six), As I Lay Dying (four), A Clockwork Orange (two), Midnight's Children (two), Foucault's Pendulum (two), Breakfast of Champions (two), The Three Musketeers (two), White Noise (two), Gravity's Rainbow (two) and—thank you—Molloy (two, including me).
(4) Do you generally separate your reading into “work” and “fun”?
This question was mainly directed at the academics, but I thought it would be interesting to find out whether this was a common distinction. Interestingly, those whose work involved “literary” reading—writers, literature students, journalists, academics in the humanities—did not, as a rule, separate their reading into “work” and “fun,” which I suppose makes sense, because, as one of my respondents commented, “there's no separation between work and interest—I work out of interest.” Those who did make a clear distinction between “work” and “fun” were generally engaged in administrative or managerial positions, where “work” reading consisted of reports and other business-related documents, so, as one person said, “most of my reading away from the office is fun—novels, newspapers, etc. I tend to do work reading at work.” A couple of exceptions were a woman doing a Ph.D. in history, who said “The reading I do for work and the reading I do for fun are so completely different, I consider them different activities,” and a philosophy professor, who made the comment: “I don't read pulp just to relax. TV is for that.”
(5) Do you ever re-read books you love? If so, how often? Please give examples, if possible.
Most people, it seems, re-read their favorite books on a regular basis, from every single year, to once every four or five years. About a quarter of my respondents said they'd re-read classics like The Iliad, The Odyssey, The Divine Comedy, Ulysses, Jane Eyre, The Great Gatsby, and The Time Machine. Others re-read mainly stories, poems, and sections of longer novels. A lot of people said they like to re-read their favorite contemporary novels, especially science fiction and fantasy—titles mentioned included Catch 22, Portnoy's Complaint, Lord of the Rings, The Hobbit, The Silmarillion, Talisman, Dune, Blood Meridian, and the Harry Potter series. I was interested to discover that 17 of my respondents said they regularly returned to books they enjoyed in their childhood; particular favorites seem to be Catcher in the Rye, Watership Down, The Plague Dogs, A Wrinkle in Time, The Book of Three, The Weirdstone of Brisingamen, and anything by Dr. Seuss.
(6) Can you read books in noisy places (e.g., on trains and buses)?
I tend to be a very relaxed reader, able to lose myself in a book whatever the circumstances around me, but my friend Mark can't read anything, not even a newspaper, if there are people talking nearby (his new method is to wear a pair of Bose earphones and listen to white noise on his iPod). From the readers I interviewed, there seem to be more people like me than like Mark. Only nine of my respondents said they couldn't read in noisy places. While many people said they preferred quiet, most people seem to have no problem tuning out external noise and absorbing themselves in their books. One person said, “I have even read under shell fire. It kept the fear from becoming overwhelming.”
A few people mentioned feeling uncomfortable and restless if they found themselves on public transport without having a book to read. I know this feeling well. Since I'm lucky enough to be able to read pretty much anywhere, regardless of circumstances, and since books are a part of my academic work, I rarely leave home without something to dip in and out of during the day. Even if I'm going out for dinner or to a movie, there's still sometimes a few moments when I might find myself alone, waiting for a friend, or for the lights to go down, and it's difficult for me to simply sit and wait. I read on the train and the subway—I even read standing up, if it's not too crowded. Of course, I'll read in all the usual places, too, during the little hiatuses in the day—in waiting rooms and in between appointments, while eating lunch (I know, mother, it's not polite).
Our notion of what reading is, and what it involves, is still defined by the physical and economic restraints it grew out of, from the texture of paper to the geography of libraries and bookstores. These notions generally depend on the material constraints of “real” books—but for some up-to-date types, these constraints no longer apply. None of my readers said as much, but some people have moved away from “real” books, preferring to read e-books on their laptops or Blackberry's, especially at work, when they can snatch only the occasional reading break. This is a natural side effect of our changing habits. We're busier than ever today, and, due to the increased pace of our lives, we apparently tend to read in very short “spurts” compared to the readers of two or three generations ago. These days, when we pick up a book, it's usually for 10 or 15 minutes rather than an hour or so—a fact that some people attribute to the influence of the media, especially television, with its commercial breaks every 12 minutes, and its six-second shots.
(7) Can you remember if a book has ever made you laugh out loud, or shed tears? If so, please give examples.
Everyone I interviewed could remember laughing out loud while reading, though not all of them could remember specific titles—which is interesting, because, while I'll often find things I read very funny and engaging, the pleasure always remains internal; I don't think I've ever laughed out loud at something I've read in a book. But everybody I interviewed could remember not just laughing out loud, but even the specific passages they laughed about. Portnoy's Complaint and Catch 22 got the most mentions, followed by The Corrections, The World According to Garp, The Diary of Bridget Jones, Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas, Much Ado About Nothing, anything by P.G. Wodehouse, anything by Terry Pratchett, and Marley and Me: My Life with the World's Worst Dog. There were a few surprises here, too—for example, a psychiatrist confessed to laughing aloud only at Dilbert cartoons and a book called How to be a Jewish Mother; a writer mentioned often laughing out loud at his own fiction.
Crying is a bit more complicated, since most people don't cry as readily as they laugh—there's more of a taboo about shedding tears, especially for men. And tears seem more permeable, more labile than laughter: if you're already upset, or grieving, or broken-hearted, the slightest thing can set you off, though some books will make you cry no matter what mood you're in (Lolita does it to me every time). Twenty-six of my respondents (19 of them men) said that, while they know they've felt sad or emotionally moved by a book, they couldn't recall actually shedding tears. Others said they cried a lot, at “anything sentimental” or “any books about animals.” Titles mentioned were eclectic, and included The Pianist, Metamorphosis, A Child Called It, Jude the Obscure, “the last few pages of Finnegan's Wake,” The Corrections, Little Women, and Marley and Me (from the same person who said it made her laugh out loud).
"A psychiatrist confessed to laughing aloud only at Dilbert cartoons and a book called How to be a Jewish Mother."
Personally, I'll never forget the odd experience of crying helplessly over Beloved while absolutely hating the book—partly, I think, because at the time it felt as though the author was playing heartlessly, almost manipulatively, on my private emotions. Or maybe it was just me.
The last two books that made me cry out loud were Coetzee's Disgrace and Chang Rae Lee's Aloft. Now that I think about it, both are about the collapse of their patriarch protagonist's life-worlds; that probably says loads. Towards the end of Aloft I just couldn't take it any more. I think it's the only time I had to take a few deep breaths before continuing to read.
I remember crying when reading the end of Turgenev's Fathers and Sons. I found my mother finishing it in the kitchen one morning. She almost never read novels at this time. But here she was all red-eyed over this book. I read the novel after that. She handed it to me. I was about 23 then; I was having problems figuring out what to do in life, and I was butting heads with my father. I identified with the predicaments of the young men in the novel, the conflicts, and the complex bonds—sometimes unacknowledged—with the “fathers.”
Of course, where you read is going to effect how you read. If you mostly read in public or semi-public places, and if you tend to read in 10- or 15-minute intervals during your work day, then, unless you're a very gifted reader, it's going to be hard for you to get deeply involved in your book. If you're reading fiction, it's difficult to identify with characters and keep up with a nuanced plot when you have to stop reading every few minutes, and not many of us feel comfortable laughing aloud or shedding tears in public. One reader confessed to feeling overcome at the closing chapter of Brick Lane by Monica Ali: “I was on the tube and had to stop reading it due to tears!” Another recalled: “At school we had an hour a week of private reading time. I remember bringing in Spike Milligan's war memoirs and being nearly thrown out of class because I couldn't read it without laughing.”
(8) Where do you buy most of your books? How much do you spend on books each year?
I asked this question mainly out of curiosity, since I never go to bookshops any more, and buy all my books used, from Amazon. While online book-buying seems to be more and more common, according to my survey, most people still also buy from bookstores, and even when buying online, prefer new books to used. A number of people commented how much they used to enjoy hunting for bargains in used bookstores, and how sad they felt that the Internet had “put an end to all that,” since now “everybody knows exactly how much any book is worth.” I was surprised to learn how little even the most prolific readers seem to spend on books (though it's also possible that people were underestimating their expenditure). Nobody thought they spent more than $1,500 a year on books, and the average estimate was between $150 and $200. A lot of people said they rarely bought books at all, borrowing them instead from libraries, friends and family, or relying on desk or review copies; others said they get all their books from thrift stores, charity shops, and library sales.
(9) Do you use bookmarks, or dog-ear the pages of your books? Do you make marginal notes? If so, do you use pencil or pen?
Those who tend in the direction of fetishism responded to this question with expressions of mock outrage, perplexity, or disapproval. “Bah god no! ... I'd seriously punch someone who dog-eared my books”; “Turning pages down makes me cringe. NO MARGIN NOTES. ... Why would I make notes in the margins?”; “Dog-earing is to be frowned upon. It is analogous to twisting the arm of a child.”
Personally I have little restraint about dog-earing my corners (but then, I'm also often tempted to twist the arms of children). Since I buy my books used whenever possible, I also tend to make notes in the margins, in pen (if I can't find a pencil, which is most of the time), so basically, I'm with the person who said, of his books, “I don't mind how they look, as long as they're stuck together.” Surprisingly, we dog-earers are in the majority—most people, including people you might expect to have fetishizing tendencies, such as writers and literature professors, said they usually dog-eared page corners to keep their place, and often made notes in the margins. Others said they keep their place with Post-its, note cards, pens, pencils, loose book covers, hair pins, subway cards, candy wrappers, sticky tabs, receipts, plane tickets, photographs, paper clips, or other devices:
I have these bookmarks that I make from torn pieces of paper. ... When I am finished with a book ... it can have as many as 40 of these bits of paper sticking out at the top—like some kind of headdress or rooster's comb. It's totally inefficient and ridiculous and I will probably never quit sticking these papers in.
Anybody who reads a lot will probably recognize that, over the years, they've picked up a few funny habits, which makes it a bit easier to understand how some people come to fetishize their books, and perhaps even to sympathize with those people.
Think carefully for a moment. Do you have any unusual tendencies, while reading? For example, I have an odd habit—odd but not perhaps so unusual—of checking the page numbers every time I turn over a new leaf. I'm not sure what I'm checking for—just to be sure that they're in the right order, I suppose. (Though what would I do if they weren't? Write a letter to the Times?). Also, I usually check how long the chapter is before I start it. I'm not exactly sure why I do this, though I suppose it has something to do with my need to be in control, since I find it very hard to stop reading at random, so books without chapters, or books with uneven chapters, annoy me very much—though it's unclear why I should turn myself over like this to the power of the book. After all, I could stop anywhere, wherever I wanted to. (Couldn't I?)
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How quickly do you read? Do you skim through pages at top speed, or do you stop to savor the sentences along the way? I'm sure we've all had the experience of not being able to put a book down, but for some people this seems to be the norm: “I will read a book obsessively in a single sitting, doing nothing else all day,” said one person; another commented: “When I'm really reading a book, that's all I do until it's over!” I've noticed that, with books I'm especially enjoying, I have a tendency to want to draw out the pleasure as long as I can by allowing myself only a few pages at a time, and reading with extra care, taking my time, enjoying the foreplay, as it were. But then, when I come to the last few chapters I find it hard to restrain myself, and once I know the end is in sight, I charge ahead to the climax in one long session, unable to stop, rather like the way some people let themselves slurp, guzzle, and smack their lips when coming to the end of their meal.
And finally...
(10) Where, and when, do you do your best reading?
When truly absorbed in a book, you're in a kind of liminal zone between inner and outer worlds—awake, but unaware, inwardly focused, but, ideally, without the slightest bit of self-consciousness. The reader who's totally engrossed has no notion of time or place, no bodily sensations, no existence outside their book. This is why books can be so vital for those in dire circumstances—people who are bedridden, in prison, or in hospital. Books can remove you, however temporarily, from your ongoing ordeal.
According to Freud, reading, like art and creative writing, is a kind of daydreaming, childish and retrogressive; those with happy, fulfilled, distracting lives should have no need to escape into fiction. But most readers seem to feel that, in moderation at least, fiction enhances their lives, making them richer and more interesting. Almost everyone who's in the habit of reading tries to carve out some time to spend every day with a book, even if it's just a few minutes at night, before falling asleep. In fact, morning and night—the liminal edges of the day—are the times most people seem to spend with their books.
The etiquette of reading when you're not alone can be quite a touchy subject. Some people feel it's rude to read in company, and of course this is often true, but it all depends on the company, and how comfortable you are around them. For example, when you're in the first stages of a love affair, it seems absolutely inconceivable to get out a book and read; you have no interest in anything except being with your lover. Even waiting in a bar or restaurant, you're a mass of nerves, hardly able to order a drink, unable to focus, incapable even of reading a menu. But there comes a time when there's nothing more natural than for you and your lover to spend the evening together absorbed in your separate books.
Getting to this stage, however, can be a fragile and delicate process. How many nights do you have to spend with a new lover before it's acceptable, when, in his or her company, to reach out and take a book from the nightstand? In doing so, you're tacitly admitting that you've reached a stage when your lover's presence is less interesting to you, at least for a while, than printed words on a page. It's a sensitive moment, not to be undertaken without a clear knowledge of the risks involved. Will your new lover recoil with dismay at your thoughtless indifference, or will they smile agreeably, and reach for a book of their own? And what if they reach for their book too soon, too early in the relationship, before you're ready, before it feels right? Is there anything you can do? Should you say something, or should you just take it as a sign that the honeymoon is over?
And then, think about this: How many people do you know in whose company you'd feel comfortable losing yourself in a book? On the one hand, naturally, it's hard to imagine any more blatant signal that you're not interested in other people's conversation, and there are times—if you took out your book during a dinner party, for example, or in the middle of a first date—when no other interpretation could be possible. In different circumstances, however, settling down with a book can show that you feel completely at ease with somebody, so much so that you feel no obligation to make small talk, especially in circumstances when there's no need to stand upon ceremony—if you're both on a long trip, or enduring a tedious wait.
The readers I interviewed came up with a wide variety of responses to the question of where they do their best reading, from the general (“anywhere”; “at home”; “on vacation”) to the specific (“lying on my BACK with my head propped up”; “on the lounge chair with my feet up, something to drink and a cigarette”; “on a blanket or towel, in nature, with a glass of Sauvignon blanc”). People seem to have all kinds of favorite spots for reading: “in the chair in my office”; “at the pool”; “in Starbucks”; “on trains”; “on the beach”; “in my backyard, on a folding chair”; “in the library”; “in Central Park”; “on planes”; “on the sofa”; “in my easy chair”; “in the back seat of the car”; “in coffeehouses”; “in trees”; “in the hot tub.” And, while lots of people freely admitted to reading in the bath, nobody confessed to doing their best reading on the loo.
Like most people, I do most of my reading in bed at night. In the morning, if I don't have to get up right away, I'll spend at least half an hour reading in bed, which is, as most people seem to agree, the best place for intensive, immersive leisure reading. You can burrow down into the covers with your book or plump the pillows and sit up in your pajamas like a dainty invalid. You can stretch out, curl up, or snuggle under the quilt. If you feel guilty about staying in bed, or if it makes you antsy to look at the clock, you can lie on top of the covers and do some leg lifts while you read. You can make a nice pot of tea for the bedside table (it's even better if you can get somebody to make it for you). Of course, there are other places that are more commonly associated with reading—airport lounges, long flights, hospitals—but here we tend to read by necessity, as a way of passing the time, or to keep our mind off things. Lying supine in bed, everyone seems to agree, is the ideal place to read, the most conducive to immersion in the richness and complexity of another world.
Mikita Brottman is a professor of language and literature at the Maryland College Institute of Art. This essay is part of a book in progress about reading. Send your responses to these 10 questions, or any other thoughts about reading habits, to mbrottman@mica.edu.
