The Book I Read
When I was a child I was surrounded by books. My father was a reader, and my mother was a reader, and my brother was a reader, and my brother was a reader. Books about Shaw and Russell and Buber and Tillich. Novels by Agnes Sligh Turnbull and Mazo de la Roche and Ben Ames Williams and Frances Parkinson Keyes. Thrilling adventures by Burroughs and Wells and Howard and Verne. The Harrad Experiment. Stranger in a Strange Land. Darker Than Amber. Bug Jack Barron. Beneath the Wheel. Naturally enough, I read one. I read The Phantom Tollbooth.
I reread it recently and I have to admit, it didn't cast the same spell on me. But I have read many books since then. There have been only a handful of days in the past forty years when I couldn't have affirmed that I was “reading a book”. Or two, or four, or five. Right now I am reading one by J. P. Marquand, and one by Merton, and one by Chesterton. For better or for worse, I am a reader.
About
the oldest piece of unsolicited advice in the history of the world is
that of the Delphic oracle, “Know Yourself.” Strangely enough,
one of the best ways to get to know yourself is to know others, and
one of the best ways to know others is to shun their company, and
read. It has all of the advantages of socializing, and none of the
handshaking.
