Bedtime Readings

The day is drawing to a close. It’s dark outside… Too early to call it a day as I reach out for a book from the rickety bookcase beneath the window. Three shelves with lots on Shakespeare, quite a bit of poetry, essays, a few novels, old favorites, some going back to over forty years. Books are so much a part of my life. Not of everyone’s, but of mine they are. Yet now I ask myself if I ever knew how to really read a book. Why did I choose that particular book? What does it mean to me?

Whatever it is, at this point it will probably be a re-reading, by far the best for bedtime reading. In half an hour I’ll turn off the light and slip my hand under the covers next to my thigh, keeping company with its companion, to warm up.

I’ll think about what I’ve been reading, about another world, and marvel at how the author has captured the feelings of a child or of an aging woman. I’ll think about the author and about the world recreated. Is it that world that fascinates me most, or is it the writer? I refuse the complicated analyses of a professor like Tim Parks who makes me think I haven’t at all read those pages the way one should, asking myself if the writer should have used this adjective or that or what his models were. My approach is more direct and simple. I simply like it, as it may bring back memories of the first time read. The world evolves and we too have evolved. The world is no longer what it was and the book no longer means to me what it did on my first reading thirty or more years ago.

I may discover a book I had forgotten, whether it is a poem or a novel or an essay. Perhaps I may simply read the book for the story, whether or not it is familiar. There is something very human in looking forward to finding out what happens next. Even if it is new and I am not fond of suspense, I will commit the sin of skipping to the last few pages for an answer. That of course will give me a chance to concentrate on other things as I return t where I left off, such as how the author used a certain word and other aspects of the style. I may choose a book because I loved the main character’s approach to life, and can identify with the writer or with the character. Does it make a difference? I am immersing myself in a different time and can forget the preoccupations that had kept me company throughout the day. Our physical selves give way to new imagined selves, free to wander unencumbered in our minds.

So let me put the book, its printed pages opened out to where I left off, down, take off my glasses, turn off the light and pull up the covers, although if it is July it may still be light and it will only be a sheet.

Buona notte till tomorrow.