His romance with reading
IF YOU’RE reading this, something must be a little wrong with you. Because from what I hear, reading isn’t so important anymore. Reading is so last year.
These days, lots of people get by perfectly fine without reading. They lead satisfying lives, despite never picking up a newspaper or a book. They work hard. They vote. Not well, but they vote. Sometimes the politicians they choose are a disappointment. But that’s the risk you take when you don’t read. I mean, who has the time?
More and more, people don’t really need to read. Not when they can get all the information they need from silver-tongued news readers who might not have a really firm grasp of how their government functions. On how a bill passes through Congress or the way a federal budget is crafted. Doesn’t matter. The point is: Why read when handsome and authoritative anchor people will do your reading for you?
Soon, this will get even better. Soon there will be “American Idol”-type tryouts in cities all around the country, then America will vote on the anchor person they prefer.
The one with the hair or the one with the bod? The one with the sexy smile or the one with the dark smoldering eyes? “American Anchor” it will be called. Democracy in action. It may be our only chance to get Cronkite back. Unless that Kelly Clarkson wins again: “Hey y’all, this here’s today’s headlines!”
Anyway, back to reading and why it’s such a waste of time these days.
Turns out that reading isn’t the most important thing. It just so happens that clicking is now the most important thing. If you can click a computer mouse, the entire world is at your fingertips. Smut. Restaurant tips. A gazillion or more home movies.
On the Web, you can always find what you’re looking for, though you’ll miss out on discovering an interesting story you didn’t expect, the way you did in the old days ... say, back in February.
With a computer, you get only what you ordered and not necessarily what you need. You miss the happenstance. The serendipity. With the right search engine, you get no surprise. Sure, surprise may be the soul of storytelling, of humor, of life. But seems we can live without it. Who has time, really, for surprises? Just keep your surprises to yourself, dude.
Honestly, it’s a relief that this whole reading thing was just a fad, that it’s dying out, like the dousing of some eternal flame. Reading used to suck up an inordinate amount of my time, let me tell you. It was habit forming. Subversive. Even a little selfish.
Reading could even perform miracles. For one, it made me a more interesting guy. Not fascinating, not by a long shot. But a little more interesting than I otherwise might’ve been. This came in handy in lots of ways.
“Soon, many of you young men will be dating,” I told a group of fish-breathed fifth-graders not too long ago. “You will find that on a date, the young lady will eventually tire of talking about herself -- two to three hours, maybe four. Then it will be your turn to speak.
“If you have read a book, you have a slight chance of saying something remotely interesting,” I told the boys. “If you have read two books, you have twice the chance of saying something remotely interesting. And if you have read no books, you have almost no chance of saying
anything remotely interesting.
“So do yourselves a favor,” I told the fifth-graders. “Read a good book.”
Poor kids. I almost got through to them, almost got them to read before it fell so out of fashion.
Before it died a sudden death, I liked everything about reading. I used to like the way the pages would smell all musty when it rained. The way the spine of a book would snap like a cracker. I used to get a minor thrill, just the tiniest jolt, from finding typos. Those were the days: typos.
When something was really poignant, or funny or life-changing, I would go back and reread it, savoring the cadence of the sentence. The wit. The way the words laid across the page like little shards of sculpture. Keillor. Irving. King.
And back in the old days, I used to like reading to the little guy at night before bed, to feel his heartbeat against my elbow, his corn-dog breath against my furry neck.
“How does a dinosaur say good night?” I would read to him. “Does a dinosaur stomp his feet on the floor and shout: ‘I want to hear one book more!’?”
Too bad, dinosaur. Lights out, pal.
Chris Erskine will be at The Los Angeles Times Festival of Books on Saturday, from 4 to 5 p.m., at the Angel City Booth. He can be reached at chris.erskine@latimes.com.
