The Art of Reading

I have been reading ever since I can remember. As a kid I used to devour magazines, periodicals, newspapers and books, of all genres. Westerns, thrillers, horror, romance, poetry, classics all had equal standing for me. If I had nothing to read, I would pick up a technical journal, just so that my eyes could experience the comforting sense of running over printed words. It mattered not that I understood very little, or that I was not absorbing every single word. Sometimes it was not even what was printed, but the binding, or the cover, or the smell of a book that could keep me enraptured.

I could read standing, sleeping, or sitting; at home, in the bus, train, plane or car. I could read in pin-drop silence, or in a cacophony of sound, and I never let the absence of proper lighting set me back. What little strength my hands developed is, I am sure, due to having held up heavy books to read while lying prone on the bed. The heavier and thicker the book, the more eager was my desire to peruse it. I distinctly remember many nights of going to bed with a book under my pillow, and a smile on my face.

Reading could keep me up, or put me to sleep. It educated me, but also made me realise my own ignorance. Many times it made me feel proud of my insight, or humbled me with my lack of understanding. It would lift me to dizzying heights of wonder, or make my toes curl up with revulsion at the thoughts and words of a character. It expanded my vocabulary, and ruined my eyes.

Some of the great authors were my best friends for days at a time, espousing their theories or philosophies or enrapturing me with their tales. Their stories got me familiar with cities and places that my feet would never tread on. Books gave me something to look forward to, when I had nothing else. Loneliness was an affliction that I never suffered from, as a good book was company extraordinaire! Whether I was travelling alone or had some idle time, my books were always there.

Hence if someone were to tell me, even a year ago, that there would come a time, when picking up a book would be a chore, I would have laughed. I do not believe that anyone who knows me well could even harbor such a thought. But today that statement holds true. Today I do not feel like lifting a book, or a magazine. I have literally hundreds of books to be read in my bookcase, but have not managed to be seduced by even one. Even the ones that did beckon, (gasp) I could not complete. Some are lying on my bedside table, their covers appealing to my sense of guilt, their authors pleading for their work to be lifted, with book-marks peeking out cheekily to remind me of an unfinished volume.

I can only blame Mr. Steve Jobs and his Ipad for this conundrum that I am in. Ever since I got it, I have been slowly but surely weaned away from the physical act of picking up books or magazines. The allure of their electronic cousins has ensnared me. The associated pleasure of browsing in bookstores has also fallen prey, as the world of books is now literally at my fingertips. Now my entire library is with me, and I can curl up on my lazy-boy and decide which of the various books that I am reading concurrently, I want to get into.

I have embraced the 21st Century. I have gone digital!