The curse of a creative mind: getting to sleep is like putting a toddler to bed when there's ice cream
happening in the living room. For me this leads to not only a bunch of hair-brain ideas but a very prodigious reading list. I know that's unusual but while reading upright puts me to sleep, oddly, reading sideways can go on for hours without similar effect. My book list only started a couple years ago when I took a MOOC literature course from Brown University and because I had to read 12 novels in as many weeks, started keeping track of the books I read. Much to my surprise, last week I finished #100 since then. Though there were some meaty titles on the list like Plato's Republic and Moby Dick, the one that crossed the 100-mark line was the totally fluffy Dave Barry Is Not Making This Up. (No, that's the real title!)
Years ago I found myself buying books at a prodigious rate and simply insulating my house with them. Finally I realized what I was buying was not so much the book as the dream of having time to read it. Now I recognize my dream fulfilled, though in a quite unexpected way.
I don't know how much people read any more, but I was amazed to see how long my list was. Since I do most of my reading in the middle of the night I never thought about the sheer volume, but in the same period I also completed 20 online courses, (mostly in cosmology and the humanities). Rather a lot, really. Even though I don't have a TV this makes me begin to think maybe I'm addicted to information. There is nothing I like better than learning new things, (well, nearly nothing), and what's with that feeling of delight I find diving into the news, even though I know there's nothing there but tragedy? I sometimes wonder if I don't read for entertainment; not so noble as education, but fun all the same. Maybe I should add to the list an assessment of how much I think each book improved my character. But then I already have this warm feeling of life lived well and I really don't want to mess with a good thing...
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| "Under Covers" (detail), pencil by Tim Holmes |
Years ago I found myself buying books at a prodigious rate and simply insulating my house with them. Finally I realized what I was buying was not so much the book as the dream of having time to read it. Now I recognize my dream fulfilled, though in a quite unexpected way.
I don't know how much people read any more, but I was amazed to see how long my list was. Since I do most of my reading in the middle of the night I never thought about the sheer volume, but in the same period I also completed 20 online courses, (mostly in cosmology and the humanities). Rather a lot, really. Even though I don't have a TV this makes me begin to think maybe I'm addicted to information. There is nothing I like better than learning new things, (well, nearly nothing), and what's with that feeling of delight I find diving into the news, even though I know there's nothing there but tragedy? I sometimes wonder if I don't read for entertainment; not so noble as education, but fun all the same. Maybe I should add to the list an assessment of how much I think each book improved my character. But then I already have this warm feeling of life lived well and I really don't want to mess with a good thing...
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