What did I read last year? I flip through my reading history on Libby and Hoopla and rifle through the stack of books on my nightstand. From that search comes Reading, Listening, Watching, which I published in January. And then, there is the angst-ridden tale of all the books I start but do not finish.
Despite the charm of Mary Louise Kelly’s interview with J. Courtney Sullivan about The Cliffs, and a subject I cannot resist - a much-loved old house now fallen on hard times - I get through maybe a couple of chapters at best.
Zadie Smith’s The Autograph Man, Amra Sabic-El-Rayess’ The Cat I Never Named, Lessons in Chemistry by Bonnie Garmus, The Clasp by Sloane Crosley, My Life as an Experiment by A. J. Jacobs and The Last List of Mabel Beaumont by Laura Pearson all land on the scrap heap after a few initial forays.
So, why did my thirst for literature decline? So many reasons, but the pandemic really was the final straw. With the prevailing gloom and doom, I lost the last shred of tolerance for dystopian fiction. There were other contributing factors, mostly my own failings.
The Greenville County Library System was great. They catered to a multitude of tastes and certainly satisfied mine. A network that worked seamlessly, just like Montgomery County Public Libraries in Maryland. There was a fly in the Maryland ointment, though. The downward spiral away from reading started when Germantown Public Library fined me $5 for a DVD I don’t recall borrowing. Much as I loved the place, a mere 20 minutes walk from my home and nestled in Germantown’s hub, next to a theater and several great restaurants, I refused to pay the fine and lost my library privileges. Whaaat?! Tragedy.
Electronic reading devices contributed to the decline. Now, when I read, my fingers itch to tap or click on new words to understand the dictionary definition and etymology. Or there’s a mention of an exotic delicacy, an unexplored place, an arcane concept. It’s so easy to navigate to the web to learn more, right then, right there and before I know it, the book is forgotten and I’m lost in a cyber rabbit hole.
Let me try reading a printed book, I tell myself. As I absorb the words, my errant finger flickers over the page, inured as it is to tapping on words and phrases. The craving to explore beyond the book is intense.
New Jersey’s property taxes are much higher than any other place that I’ve lived in the US but Monroe Township Library and elibrary NJ shelves and electronic resources are woefully lacking in my opinion. Perhaps they cater to specific demographics that don’t include me. A county away, the Princeton Public Library shelves groan with books I want to read. During the pandemic, they allowed people from other counties to access their resources. Joy! Now, sadly, their monthly fees are back in place for ‘non-residents’. $30 a month. Too steep.
Returning to the written word is not easy. There are so many swirling around in the world currently - on paper, flashing across screens, nestled in every crevice of cyberspace, and only the rare ones are strung together in a persuasive way. Viral posts. New “bestsellers” every time you turn around. So many Substack posts, although recently there are a lot of divisive political rants across the political spectrum. It’s hard to sift through all the noise and find something that is truly fresh, well-written and enriching.
So, maybe I should return to old loves and that will repair the wounds, strengthen muscle memory, take me back to my comfort zone. Remind myself of all the reasons why I took up this hobby and stayed true to it for so many years.
The very first book I read was likely Lucie Atwell’s Book of Rhymes. I was seldom without it in my early years. I was a tyrant when Mum read to me, protesting vehemently when she tried to fast-forward bedtime rituals by skipping pages.
At a very tender age, I read Penhallow by Georgette Heyer, one of Mum’s favorite authors. The caprices of a rich family did not perturb my naïve sensibilities but, decades later, I approach lemon meringue pies with an excess of caution.
Mum and Dad had stacks of books. Agatha Christie I consumed with great delight. Much to Dad’s disappointment, I did not appreciate P. G. Wodehouse’s tongue-in-cheek prose until I was much older, laughing uproariously at Jeeves and Wooster or the residents of Blandings Castle. Perhaps because Dad tried so hard to persuade me with Psmith’s adventures, I never truly appreciated them. Nor was I adequately impressed by Tom Sharpe’s caustic wit, which Arvind devoured in his youth.
Not far from where I grew up, National Library, Bandra introduced me to Richard Scarry’s busy and beautifully illustrated world. Later, as the library became mired in bureaucracy, I discovered a little lending library nestled between a tailor’s shop and a pet store. Surrounded by books, the hum of sewing machines and the chirping of every kind of tropical bird, I spent many happy hours in this little haven created by a lawyer’s wife from her own collection.
Enid Blyton was the go-to author in my early years. There were nature books, Betsy-May books, and fairy stories at first, then I quickly turned to Secret Seven, The Famous Five, Five Find-Outers, Malory Towers, and the adventures of the girls at St. Clare’s.
Santosh mam’s collections introduced me to satire and Mad Magazine, where I fell in love with Sergio Aragonés’ marginal art, Don Martin’s quirky characters and the eternal skullduggery of Spy vs Spy. Raju’s Dad opened our worlds by bringing home Tintin and Astérix.
Later, I entered Dick Francis’ world of equine mysteries, roamed the Yorkshire dales with James Herriot, then Corfu, Africa and a myriad exotic jungles with Gerald Durrell.
Dad introduced me to the British Council Library, where I discovered authors like Rumer Godden and, after watching The Jewel in the Crown, Paul Scott.
There were books that made me think. Reading Shashi Tharoor’s compelling articles in India Today, I discovered The Great Indian Novel. Unfortunately, all that talent was tarnished by hubris and political ambition. Other favorites include Chitra Divakaruni’s enthralling stories, Indu Sundaresan’s narratives that breathe life into history books, Gita Mehta’s often irreverent memories in Snakes and Ladders, Rohinton Mistry’s intricate family sagas remind me of a life that no longer exists, Bapsi Sidhwa’s searing tales of the partition, the brilliance of Anita Desai and Kiran Desai.
Children’s and Young Adult fiction are my literary comfort food. The Secret Garden, The Railway Children, any of Neil Gaiman’s books (Coraline, The Graveyard Book, and most especially, Fortunately, the Milk).
Researching this post, I came across so many books that I want to read. So, let me see if I can motivate myself to add these back into my diet.
On a totally unrelated note, my 2024 Spotify wrap is a weird mix - Amir’s Pardonnez Moi S’il Vous Plait and Rataan Lambiyan inspired by Renee’s party barre class playlist, Amitabh Bachan’s somber voice singing Ganesh bhajans, Natalie Merchant’s Leave Your Sleep, Seunghee Lee’s clarinet solos. Lee is amazing at everything she touches - music, golf (in her Sunny Kang persona) - and she’s a philanthropist as well. Listening to her music and her fun-filled voice in this WWFM interview with David Osenberg compels me to find her on Spotify.