A lifetime of reading . . . is actually quite small
People who don’t read fiction sometimes annoy me. They can be so smug about how frivolous it is to read stories that aren’t factual. While I can hardly argue that my genre binges are improving books, they’ll extend this argument to the good stuff even.
Most of them are fun and charming, though, and defending fiction is a source of fun with them. So, as I started reading Germinal yesterday, I sent one such friend a tail to a note about some work-related stuff:
hope all is well. you’ll love this: I’m reading Germinal by Zola — 19th century fiction! You’d be amazed at the relevance my oh-so-intelligent friend.
To which, he replied:
19th century fiction? C’mon Kip…. with only time to consume just over 2000 books over an average life span you can certainly find some non-fiction to help prevent the brain rot.
That was depressing. I’ve always been keenly aware that I will never read more than a fraction of the books I may want to. That’s the reason I embrace the rule of “if I don’t love a book after 50 pages, I’m dumping it” (and I may just dump Germinal, which will be really weird — like turning my back on my labor past).
But only 2000 books??? That’s a bummer, especially when I think of all the books I’ve re-read four or five times or more. Makes me wonder if I should stop with the books and just read magazines.