Why Read Books

Yesterday I was re-listening to a podcast from Stanford on itunes U. It is simply a public discussion on why people love to read books. The podcast features two professors from Stanford, Seth Lerer (http://english.stanford.edu/bio.php?name_id=76) and Hans Ulrich Gumbrecht (http://www.stanford.edu/dept/HPS/gumbrecht.html), and one visiting professor from Harvard, Leah Price (http://www.people.fas.harvard.edu/~lprice/).

I found this discussion to be interesting in light of the book, Endangered Minds, which I’m reading.

Hans Urlich, who works as the moderator for the discussion, makes it a point to not just give a cliched lecture or argument for the importance of books. He assumes, given the audience and location, that that idea is a given.

Instead, he has the speakers discuss such things as why they think reading is linked to sleep, what made them into readers, what impact our electronic age will have on texts, what to do about a generation of alliterates, and so on.

This got me thinking about the first time I became cognizant of how much I loved reading - or more particular - how much I loved a particular book.

Reading didn’t come easy for me. I was not the type of reader my wife is. She recalls getting a reading textbook from her aunt, who was an elementary teacher and principal, and reading the entire thing.

When first gradel finally rolled around and her teacher passed out the reading text for that year, Kristie had to confess that she read it.

"Oh, you read the first story?" the teacher asked.

"Uh. I read the whole book," Kristie confessed.

That warranted Kristie her own book and reading time for first grade.

I was not that fortunate. What I recall most about learning to read is sitting in my mom’s lap with her arms around me and a book in my lap. She held the book open and turned the pages as I read aloud.

It was so difficult for me to get my tongue to match the words that were formed in my brain as I focused on my index finger trailing across the lone sentence on each page.

It was drudgery. But each day Mom sat me down and put me through it.

I hated it. And that might have doomed my love for reading before it ever began.

However, later in school - I imagine around third or fourth grade - I read my first book because my friend, Simon, had read it. He talked about how great it was and how much he liked it. I didn’t want to have him get one up on me in anything, so over Christmas vacation, I checked the book out and read it on my own.

I even recall the night I finished it and the sense of pride that I felt as I closed the book.

That book soon led me into the Hardy Boys series. From there I read some books by Louis Lamore (though I think he wrote them under a pen name). Finally, by fifth or sixth grade I had came to Lloyd Alexander’s The Book of Three, which was the first book in a series.

This was the first book that I truly loved. Well, I guess it was the first book where I fell in love with the characters, for Taran, the young protagonist, was a boy stuck working for his adoptive father on a pig farm. Given that we had recently moved from town to a sheep farm, I could relate. Given too that I had long been fascinated by the fantasy world of sword and sorcerers, this book captured me immediately.

After the book of three, I found The Black Cauldron (which Disney actually made into a movie). Then I found The Castle Llyr, Taran Wanderer, and the Newberry Award winner The High King.

But the moment I alluded to in the intro to this blog entry came some time after I had finished devouring the series. Our librarian met with my class. We did this every week or so, and she’d spotlight a different book, hoping to spark an interest.

This time the book she chose happened to be The Book of Three. When she held it up, I felt such a rush of jealousy, I could hardly contain it.

Who was she to talk about my book!

The jealousy quickly gave way to pride and a strong desire to share what I knew about the book - and the series.

Our librarian gave us a quick summary of the novel. By this time, my hand was trying to free itself from my shoulder as I lofted above my head

This must have shocked her, for I had never spoken up before - probably because I had not read any of the previous books she had spotlighted.

“Yes, Kurt,” she said.

And I was off rambling about the entire series - likely more to brag that I had read them - and loved them - more than anything.

Suddenly, I couldn’t comprehend how someone would not want to read this. My affection for the book was so strong that I remember the teacher having to cut me off about halfway through the events of The Castle Llyr because my spiel was cutting into the actual time we were allowed to rummage through the library to find books.

Somehow my jealousy had evaporated, leaving behind a strong desire to make everyone in my class read that book - well, not Simon - I wanted to have one up on him for once - and experience the same type of wonder that I had.

Now, after all of these years, I think it was at that moment that subconsciously, I realized I wanted to teach. Not that I wanted to blather on like I did then and gloat over the knowledge I had (well, I'm guilty of the former but I don't know enough of anything to be guilty of the latter). I wanted to get others to feel the way I did about books, writing, and learning.

And, after all of these years, I have that jealousy conquered, but not that zest for getting others to read the books - To Kill a Mockingbird, The Giver, The Things They Carried, The Dante Club, On Writing, Tuesdays With Morrie, Harry Potter, Fahrenheit 451, Of Mice and Men, Watership Down, The Great Gatsby, Heart of Darkness, and King Lear - and experience the same love and movement that I did and continue to feel.