Anyone who knows me knows I am an avid reader and hopeless book collector. I say “hopeless,” because I will always have more books than I ever have time to read. Most of them are at least confined to one room so it at least looks somewhat manageable (okay, so some of them are hidden in a trunk in the closet!).
I think I’ve already read at least 45 books this year, my goal always being 52 – one for every week of the year (though it typically takes me more than a week to read most books).
Right now there’s a stack of about a half a dozen library books on the top of my dresser. That should pretty much take me through to the end of the year. All are memoirs – mostly by men, but at least one by a woman. Incidentally, as someone who hopes to write a memoir someday, I very much enjoy reading others’ books (for inspiration and ideas).
My husband is also an avid reader, but doesn’t have as much spare time as I do, so he reads a lot less. However, he will often read for longer periods of time than I will. As much as I know reading is a valued and respected past time, I feel guilty if I spend much time doing it at home when so many other things need doing. It’s only when I’m not feeling well that I tend to spend longer than maybe 15 minutes reading. Of course an exception was made when reading each of the Harry Potter books, because those were certainly hard to put down! However, unlike many of JK Rowling’s readers, I didn’t want to devour any of the books all in one sitting. Like a fine wine or chocolate, I think books are meant to be savored and carefully digested, so I prefer to read little by little. I think it also helps me remember what I read the day before.
Sometimes I will even read more than one book at a time – perhaps an informational book of some kind and a novel or memoir on the side. My uncle said he does this too, so I guess I’m not the only one.
My husband mostly reads either fantasy/science fiction or the classics, and is currently reading volume 1 of a Proust compilation. He’s certainly ambitious and makes me feel bad for rarely reading a book over 350 pages.
The book I am just about to start is called Breakfast With Tiffany – an uncle’s memoir by Edwin John Wintle. Apparently this gay New Yorker decides to help out his sister by letting his 13 year old niece stay with him for awhile and go to school in NYC. Being a big fan of the Big Apple, I find anything at all related to the city to be most fascinating.