| Between The Covers: How Much Is Too Much? by Marlene McCarty |
I have a confession to make: I am a bookaholic. I've never been able to tell how much reading is too much. But there are times when I know I'm "all read out" and I stop. Don't read for days. Sometimes even weeks. But then I get it--the craving. I try to resist, to do something else, call someone, anything but read. In the end, I can't. I reach out my hand, grab a book, and it starts all over again. Another binge. This is not a habit I've developed in middle age, or out of boredom, or because I don't have a life. It's something I've always done. One of my most vivid childhood memories is watching my mother storm into the library and demand that the librarian stop letting me borrow four books twice a week. "She'll ruin her eyesight," was the only plausible objection my poor exasperated mother could come up with. Mrs. Drover, the librarian, argued that reading couldn't possible ruin my eyes, as I hardly had any eyesight to begin with. But in the face of my mother's wrath, she relented and promised faithfully to ration me to four books, weekly. This sorry state of affairs lasted awhile; then, gradually, I'd borrow an extra one on Tuesday, because by Saturday I'd run out and be miserable all week-end. Eventually, I crept back up to eight each week. By age twelve or thirteen, I'd gone through all the books in the youth section and would sneak into the adult section--you had to be over sixteen to read those books. Anyway, once there, I was in heaven, and Mrs. Drover continued to nourish me each Tuesday and Saturday for years, until she retired and I moved away. Over the years, through two marriages, four kids and numerous jobs, I read voraciously, annoying almost everyone I knew. But no one ever convinced me to quit the habit. Even now, I go into a restaurant with someone and without thinking, I pick up a newspaper. Eventually, said person lets out a sigh, and I comply. "Why do you read so much?" is a frequent question from my friends. And I don't have an answer. Maybe it's because I don't watch TV, another fact that seems to perplex people to no end. I have an aversion to noise, and a blaring television drives me crazy. Possibly I read because I've always wanted to travel, and reading takes me all over the world without ever having to spend a red cent. Or, it just may be the fact that as a child, I loved history and geography, and school dished out just sufficient scraps to make me ravenous. Could it be that I read because I'm a romantic at heart but in real life, romance--at least for me--has always been a dismal failure? I could say, of course, that I read because I write. Or is it the other way around? I'm never sure which came first, the reading or the writing; although if I really think about it, I get the sneaky suspicion that the reading did come first. Then again, growing up in Newfoundland, where storytelling is an art and a part of everyday life and where appreciation for a good yarn is instilled from infancy could, I believe, be another possible factor contributing to my passion for the written word. A book combining history, geography, travel, romance, mystery, and humor--a tall order, but some books have it all--gives me everything I crave with no muss, no fuss. Maybe I'm just lazy. But whatever the reason, I still can't stop. Sometimes people ask why I never married again (I've been single for twelve years) and I say, "Where would I put a man? I don't have room." And it's true. Every available nook and cranny is filled--with books! My last "significant other" looked around my living room one day and announced to a friend, "I'm going to move in here soon, and all these books are going." Well, he's gone but my books aren't. One of the most indisputable facts about reading is that a good book never loses its appeal, or ever goes out of style. My favorites, I re-read, at least once every year or so. Others, such as Thomas Hardy's Return Of The Native, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's A Study In Scarlett, W.S Maugham's The Razor's Edge, and H.E. Bates' The Feast Of July will always remain among my treasures. I refuse to part with these and countless others that I come back to time and again. Although my eyesight did not improve, I don't believe reading ever did me any harm; indeed, I'm positive it's done me a world of good. For the places I've been, the people I've met, and the many wonders I've discovered--vicariously--have enriched my life beyond measure. Maybe I'll never be sure if I read too much or not. But one thing's certain: though husbands leave, friends change, children move out (we hope) and the dog adopts the family down the street, books remain constant. One of my biggest fears is that for some reason, some day, I may not be able to read. I try to imagine it, but can't. I hope and pray I never have to find out. -------------------------------------------------------------------------------- ©1999 Marlene McCarty |
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| Between the Covers chosen as 'Article of the Week' at Zinos Oct. 2000 |