Well-read

I’ve always wanted to be one of those people who live in houses with those tall libraries, the kind you need a rolling ladder to get to the top shelves.  Actually, I’ve never wanted to live in that kind of house; I just want to be the kind of person who’s read all those books.  And actually, I don’t want to read them; I just want to have read them.  I guess what I really want is an accumulation of knowledge, to know what they’re talking about when I read references to Middlemarch or A Tale of Two Cities.  I’ve always wanted to be well-read.

Which is maybe why I determined this summer was the perfect opportunity to brush up on the classics I’ve missed.  I’m not sure how or why I summoned a call for Roots from the library.  But when I read the synopsis, it sounded exactly like my kind of book: autobiography, 1800s, family relationships, history.  It had my name written all over it.  Except it was thick.  Over 800 pages.  And a classic of sorts.  It made me nervous.  I hated the idea of investing time—any amount of time—into starting it if I wasn’t going to finish it.  So I began tentatively.  With Kinte back in Africa in a village in the 1700s.  Which was ok for awhile.  But I got antsy.  I knew there was more to the story, but we were spending a long, long time talking about his village life.  So I glossed over a few pages here and there, returning to pick up some of the missed details if I got lost.  I wasn’t enjoying reading about his life.  It was nothing I could relate with.  I learned some things along the way, but I didn’t exactly look forward to curling up on the couch with it—although that’s exactly what I did.  It was somewhere after the first 100 pages (I think) that I felt I needed to make a decision.  Was this story worth my time?  It wasn’t a difficult read.  The language was familiar and easy.  I was able to keep track of who was who.  The hard part was focusing on the story at hand instead of worrying about the other books I was anxious to get to.

Which prompted me to pose the question to my online friends a couple weeks back, basically I wanted to know if they felt it was worth the time and effort to read classics or should we stick with reading what we like (assuming they’re not the same thing)?  So they weighed in, most of the opinion that life is short, read what you want.  Which is generally my philosophy too.  But are there books that are good for me just as there are foods that are better for me?  And just because I’m old enough to choose both my foods and my books, shouldn’t I be smart enough by now to make good choices instead of just eating and reading junk?

I eat a lot of cookies, and I read a lot of novels.  It’s not like I’m into salads and Wuthering Heights exclusively.  But I’ve always wondered if I was missing something by not including avocados in my diet, and over the years I’ve been curious about some of the books they set on those tables at Barnes and Noble, feeling a little out-of-the-know by not having read many of the familiar titles’ innards like Silas Marner.  I hear speakers I respect allude to them and I long to have the same exposure, the same inner knowledge.

I think back to the long, dark evenings of the 1700 and 1800s and even the earlier part of the 1900s.  Reading was a mainstay of entertainment.  I believe readers wanted rich details, a thick book they could lose themselves in.  I think people were generally less distracted back then, more able to focus.  That, and many of the “classics” to us were contemporary novels to them; daily life depicted in books was familiar to them and the language was current.  For me to wade through a serious novel takes a good deal of concentration.  And a nap beforehand so I’m wide awake.  It feels like work.  It conjures up feelings from high school, the anxiety of not having read the assigned chapters in 1984 and, even after comparing it with the Cliff notes, still not feeling certain about what was happening.  I hate being told what to do (and read) and so for me to be tied to a list that some random people have pulled together based solely on their opinions… that doesn’t sit well.  If you type in something like 100 Best Books of the 20th Century, you’ll get a variety of responses.  But I originally just wanted to know if reading the true classics (the ones branded right there on the covers) warranted the effort it would take me.

On the one hand, I believe in self-discipline, in doing hard things.  Our world has swung way too far the other way, indulgent and somewhat lazy.  We  balk when something would stretch us to discomfort.  I want to push myself, to know that I can be tenacious, that I have it in me.  It’s not about saying I’ve read the classics.  Who would I tell, how on earth would that come up in conversation, and why would anyone care what I’ve read?  That sounds so braggy anyway.  I know lots of people who have run marathons; I guess for a minute it awes me, but what I really care about is what kind of person and friend she is, not that she’s impressive.  And maybe that’s just me, I’m not inspired by much other than genuine kindness and humility.  So choosing literature has nothing to do with showcasing my bookshelf; it’s really me wanting to know what good literature feels like.  Just because a few scary-looking rock bands have huge followings doesn’t mean they’re worthy of it all.  And just because a book has remained in the top slot of a best seller list for several weeks doesn’t mean a thing to me.  However, when it comes to the true classics—the ones that show up on list after list of 100 Books to Read Before You Die—I simply wonder if they’re worth the effort and if that’s where I should spend my time. 

But on the other hand, life is short.  There are already so many demands on us, shouldn’t our leisure time be simply for relaxing?  Or should we juxtapose recreation with just a little bit of learning?  I’m not sure what you’re up against, but I know a lot of you have trade and professional journals to keep up with.  Like many of you, I try to stay on top of my lessons and church materials.  I try to read the newspaper every day and a slew of magazines that filter through our house.  I’m not that great at any of it, but I make an effort.  And so when it comes to books, should I try to be mindful and choose the best literature?  Or is it good enough to go the Doritos and a Diet Coke book route?  And yes, I know there’s a middle ground.

What does it even mean to be well-read?  I thought I knew.  I thought it was obvious: someone whose read all those thick leather-bound classics.  But as I thought about it, I realized maybe I had no idea what it really means.  Did you know you can look up that exact phrase?

The first little box that popped up: knowledgeable and informed as a result of extensive reading

Merriam-Webster: well-informed or deeply versed through reading

Thesaurus.com: bookish, educated, knowledgable, literate, studious, well-informed, cultured, scholarly, versed, widely read

From there, it was pages and pages of random people just writing in what they thought.  Most agreed that it’s got way less to do with quantity than quality and that it’s having read a variety of genres.  So having read several hundred lusty love novels does not make someone well-read.  And yet, these days it may have less to do with simply having made your way down the high school suggested reading list and more about reading (and listening to) a wide variety of opinions from Ted talks and podcasts to current novels and nonfiction in addition to those we consider classics. 

And delving just a little deeper—the real crux of the issue to me—what does it matter if we’re well-read?  Why do I hold that term in such high esteem?  I’d honestly never thought about it before.  But as I had a decision to make about my book, I felt to ask myself what my motive was.  What was I hoping for?

Probably the strongest reason for me wanting to read it was to prove to myself I could.  I’ve always wanted to feel smart.  And I did through elementary school.  Even until high school.  It’s been downhill ever since, and I honestly wonder if I’m just not intelligent enough to understand some of these esteemed books, to keep track of so many characters and plot twists.  Will I have to keep a dictionary beside me? I just wanted to see if I could make it through a thick book like that.  I’d tried others before (Little Women, Tess of the D’urbervilles—actually I was enjoying it but had to turn it back in) and always gave up, distracted or discouraged because I couldn’t really get into the story.  And so I wondered if I even had the smarts to read hard books.

But here’s what I’ve noticed.  I’ve known some extraordinarily intelligent people in my life.  But some of them are just complete idiots; they’re arrogant and essentially unable to relate to people in a warm, personal, humble way.  I’ve known some people who aren’t traditionally educated.  And yet they have figured it out.  They have common sense, they understand people, they make you feel better by just being around them, they seem to have a broad intelligence that doesn’t necessarily come from books, but from being engaged in real life and with people.

So is to be well-read the ultimate objective?  Or is it a means to a higher goal?  As I’ve thought about all this, as I’ve mulled over Roots the past couple of weeks, I’ve determined that the real purpose behind leisure reading (for me) is to learn something new but also to be entertained, to escape or transport myself into a life other than my own, to see life from another vantage point.  Our society is fascinated by wizards and werewolves, mysteries and Main Street because we get to experience life as we never could otherwise.  Even the stories we can absolutely relate to envelop us because the outcome or choices are a little different than the lives we’ve led, it’s not exactly the same, we glean new insights to life as we stand back and look at the characters’ (and inevitably our own) experiences from a new angle.

By exposing ourselves to a wide variety of media—and especially books, we begin to appreciate not only our differences, but we start to notice our sameness. In my mind, that’s what being well-read leads to: a realization that we have so much more in common than we think.  Good literature can lead us to develop a deeper compassion and understanding and sympathy for humans in a variety of ages and circumstances by exposing us to so many more scenarios and feelings than we could live through in just one lifetime.

As I read about wars through the ages, slavery, refugees, orphans, businesses, fashion, farm life, urban issues, poverty, athletes, animals, inventors, politicians, theories on education, nutrition, parenting, the environment, peanut allergies, autism, and religion, I’m inevitably becoming more aware of the world we live in.  Ideally, in my mind, reading in all its forms should lead to a broader mindset, a greater appreciation for the myriad peoples, cultures, ideas, sacrifices, and issues that make up our world.  And then our reading should propel us to do something to improve the world, to take what we’ve read and make some sort of difference.  Our reading should make us different than we were before.  I think that’s what good literature has the potential to do.

So, in answer to my question about classics, I believe in them.  I believe they have stood the test of time for a reason, specifically because they make us think.  They take us outside of ourselves.  They may cause discomfort, they may heighten our awareness, they may propel us to make changes, to fight, to empathize.  They conjure up emotion.  

As to whether I believe in reading them personally, for now I’m taking a lighter approach to understanding humanity.  I’m excited about my current bed stand stack, my non-fiction, my biographies, my Ted talks, my historical novels, my book group selections, my contemporary novels recommended by friends.  I do try to be selective.  To vary my choices.  To choose quality.  To read what interests me regardless of what’s mainstream.  With each book I read, I feel like I’ve gained some insight. Into a pocket of life or history I didn’t know much about before.  Into a person’s mind, someone who’s dealing with something I have no experience with.  Into another side of an issue, helping me see another way of looking at a complex controversy.  Regardless of whether these books have been or will ever be on some revered list, they have merit simply because they have all changed me in some small way.  While I think I will always wish to be what I have generally considered a well-read person who has taken the time to ingest the classics like so many I admire, for now this is where I am and decidedly want to reside for a bit longer.  There may likely come a time when I have long, dark nights to fill up as a grandma living alone with little to distract me.  I imagine I’ll pour over the books I once thought tedious and bask in the richness of the authors’ well-written stories. I’ll probably surprise myself by how well I enjoyed them.  And maybe then I’ll finally know what well-read feels like.  In the traditional sense.