An Explanation of Sorts

I decided to undertake a personal reading history at least in part because of a fire.

An elderly neighbor, Edna, besides being a very bright and charming woman, was both a chain smoker and a hoarder.  On December 6, 2010, she finally managed to do what was perfectly imaginable to all her neighbors on the 11th floor.  She fell asleep in her living room chair while smoking.  A fire broke out about 11 AM quickly catching on and consuming her stacks of newspapers and magazines stashed everywhere but especially there in her living room.  Our dear neighbor at 92 years of age eventually succumbed to her injuries whether due to their severity or her age I'm not sure.  The rest of us, younger and either not at home or ordered by the NYFD to remain inside our (fireproofed) apartments, fared much better.  As the cleanup of the 11th floor began, those of us with heavy smoke or water damage joined in.  

The explanation of sorts! I haven't forgotten.  

As rugs and drapes were hauled out of our apartment for cleaning, it only made sense to have the apartment painted in the process. Painting the apartment meant removing artwork, light fixtures, sconces, fans and, oh, what about the bookshelves.  Our bookshelves, unfortunately about 12 inches shy of ceiling height and not exactly built-ins, had been attached to the wall.  To avoid a sort of two-tone effect, we finally decided to undo the shelves so we could paint behind them.  This meant removing the books. 

Thus began the task of unloading book after book into box after box.  The boxes collected on the living room floor filled with books from college courses of 40 years earlier, a shelf-load of brittle paperbacks, 21 volumes of Dickens, 11 volumes of Will and Ariel Durant's The  Story of Civilization, biographies, fiction, favorite books, children's books, books that had never been read, books that should be read, thesauruses, all manner of dictionaries, Catholic bibles, Protestant bibles, study bibles and a host of other books on a host of other topics.  

How many books must be here and who was ever going to read all these books anyway? Besides,  boxes of books are heavy and clumsy and the futility of the situation was settling in. We will have to unpack these boxes and put these books back on the shelves I began thinking.  And then what?  Will we ever read them?  Lamenting to a friend, she suggested we turn work into play and have some fun by each counting our books. After a few days, we consulted. My count was 1,193 books not including a World Book Encyclopedia set and a trumpet-violin-piano library of music books.  She too had over a thousand books.

At some point in the process, I made note of the fact that among the 1,193 books collected before me, there were many that were simply never going to be read.  I decided, completely arbitrarily, that  it would be prudent to get rid of 20% of my inventory. As for the remaining 80%, I reflected, probably not long enough,  and then decided the best course of action would be to devote myself to the task of reading them! That is, I resolved to read approximately 955 books. Why? Ridiculous when you think about it. Some of the books might be boring or tedious or just not up my alley.  On the other hand, one could say that I had undertaken a project, an exercise, a challenge, a reading adventure with a purpose. 

But, what proof would I have that I had read all these books?  Who would believe me?  How would I remember what I'd read?  How would I keep it all straight?  With a log, of course, or a diary or a blog.  I could record what I had read, when I had read it and, perhaps a paragraph or two about the book. As it's turned out, I keep a handwritten log of each book with author and date completed.  I also have a Word file with the entries on each book.  I then take some form of each entry and upload it to this blog.  

Lest the blog seem superfluous or presumptuous, be reminded that reading doesn't yield any material result.  If I sit down at the sewing machine to make some pillow covers, I've got pillow covers at the end of the day.  Likewise cooking and even cleaning or exercise yield more tangible results than reading a book. When you finish the book it goes back on the shelf, or worse, to the library, and who even knows that you spent days or weeks reading it.  One can talk about the book or form a book club, but neither of those has proven satisfactory in my experience.  The log of books and the discussion of their content is for me the missing link. Besides, I've found that I love going back and reading what I've written!  Nothing so calming as a conversation with oneself! 

The first entry above dated 2015 would suggest that I'd read nothing between 2010 when the fire occurred and 2015.  Nonsense!  I must have read something.  Over time, I'll attempt to reconstruct my reading inventory of those years though I'm suspecting that two or so years of that time was spent reading the Bible while simultaneously initiating my project of reading all of Will and Ariel Durant's The Story of Civilization.  

In addition, it should be noted that the goal of the project has altered somewhat.  Whereas I had proposed to read the 955 books in my home library, that task has now been amplified to include a specific sub-task for the year 2021---to read approximately a book a week or 60 books for the year.  As of June 2021, I'm on target to reach 60 books and I've thought I should really up the number to 100. 

I permit myself to range far and wide out of the inventory of books in our home library, with the proviso that, if our home library contains a book on the particular subject of interest, then I begin with the book in our home library.

As an adult, reading had become for me an afterthought to the day's schedule, a little something to pass a stray hour if I was too tired to do anything else. Whereas, growing up, reading had been the activity for me.  Reading was often what I contentedly spent an afternoon doing.  Reading as an end in itself had gotten lost somewhere along the way.  Only since setting the parameters for this project have I re-elevated reading to its rightful position as a bona fide endeavor in its own right and a valid way to spend two or three hours.  

Now I read at the beginning of the day when I'm wide awake and fully engaged.  I set the time and the place.  Depending on the book, I come to the task with pencil and paper. I have a pencil box! I take down new vocabulary.  My handwritten book log is also my dictionary log of word definitions.  I pace myself laying out the number of pages or chapters I plan to cover in a sitting.  I feel good when my three or three hours are up and I look forward to my second reading shift later in the day.  

What are the chances that I might have thought of a personal reading history were it not for our neighbor Edna's fire.  It's hard to say.  Edna herself was a reader.  Before the fire, by way of accounting for herself I suppose, she explained to me that she had to save newspapers and magazines because she needed more time to read all the articles that she'd earmarked!  Edna had been a biology teacher at Hunter College and used words like 'nutrited' and 'eleemosynary' in her everyday conversation. She came to our Christmas Day brunch one year dressed in a Chanel suit. At age 92 before her death, Edna was still entirely lucid. 

RIP, dear neighbor.  You are not forgotten.  It is by way of a curious path from your fire to our bookshelves to a personal history of reading that I've come to know reading again as a delight and the very soul satisfying pastime that it is.