On Completing My Reading Challenge 2022
For 2022, I set a target of 40 books to mark my fortieth year. I have read books in the past. But this time, I was on a reading spree. I gave myself completely to the satisfying experience of reading. The choice of books turns out to be very eclectic. My mini success. How often do thoughts and deeds of ordinary mortals align?
A mediocre that I am, it required some hard self-talk to shake off my indolence: “Won’t you be good at anything? It’s not about coming up in life, but in your own eyes. Forget getting anything done, can’t you get something going?” I needed to have something going. After many years of wallowing in false self-esteem and perceived deservedness for every attainment, I finally faced my mediocrity that wore cloaks of protective lies. Upskilling, personal effectiveness, or anything socially aspirational has never been my strong suit. Reading satisfies me and doesn’t require outside evaluation. That was good enough!
Even while reading, a desire to master the subject or reading one discipline thoroughly kept surfacing. I again admonished myself, “It’s a trap, Idiot. Keep going. A satisfying meal consists of satisfying morsels.” I had two choices: Stay frustrated without reading or read without pretension and expectation. I chose the latter: Picked up a book and poured over every sentence till I hit the last page.
It was my final battle for preservation of self-worth. I was determined to take control of at least one sphere of my life and let other cares go to the wall. When fiction wore me out, I picked up non-fiction. I had inspiration from friends whose list of completed books pulled up paginated search results on goodreads.
Was it the challenge I was enjoying or the actual act of reading? Both. I couldn't read if I didn’t enjoy it; not 40 books certainly. And I needed a goal to keep me in the game. I hope the momentum of this year sees me through the next when I plan to do some intellectual heavy lifting. I wish to build my mind for deeper conversations when I am alone and not trifle with shallow opinions. I am aware it’s not the quantity but the quality of reading that will get me there.
Has reading made me knowledgeable? Does listening to a song make me a singer? I can enjoy a song without carrying a tune myself. I may not even remember most of what I have read. But, it was exciting to be reading authors whose company I couldn't keep. Reading is what I enjoy, writing is what I appreciate. Art consists in its appreciation, rather, art is its appreciation.
Good literature is evocative. It sensitises me to my deepest feelings and attitudes. It pulls me into emotional orbits which I can never otherwise traverse. It liberates my mind from timid imagination and helps me observe with a forgiving eye.
The joy of reading good literature runs deep. It only needs interest and active involvement. How often I have let out a squeak when an indescribable sentiment is articulated in chiselled diction, or an argument advanced with baffling precision. Literature weaves magic into meaning. From those books, I believe, some bit of that magic must have percolated into my psyche. It won’t show as a bright halo around my head for sure.
Some evident benefits of long-term reading are improved mental stamina and longer attention span. While it also improved my sleep; having slept well, I can read without falling asleep again. It was fascinating to possess an unflickering attention page after page. Previously, I couldn’t read if I was agitated. Now, I calm my agitation by reading.
During this reading marathon, I have got over my fixation to a physical book. Now, I prefer reading on my Kindle. The ease of looking up meaning and highlighting text is a very compelling case for reading on a digital device (not a back-lit device if you care for your eyes). All books are rendered to the same light weight is another advantage. But, I am still alive to the aesthetics of a physical book.
I tried listening to audiobooks. I realized it’s not suited for the kind of books I read. I am not gifted with the proverbial flame-in-a-windless-place focus. I always come back to the point where my attention wavered off course. An audiobook is cumbersome in that sense. Listening to someone else read could be anything but reading. It’s as if my page turns are timed; if I don’t make it to the end of the page in the stipulated time, the page turns over. What happens to comprehension and savouring, the very life and blood of reading. I am not comfortable with the blankness that gathers before my eyes when concentration rests on my ears.
Overall, I am quite satisfied with my reading and will gloat over it for a while. One regret less before I die. Unfortunately, I can’t say the same about my writing. Like I said, when my efforts are exposed to outside evaluation, I rarely make a mark. I have written some book reviews and menaced my limited readership. I understand it needs a rare-to-come-by generosity to suffer mediocre writing. My sympathies are with my readers! The problem is they don’t tell me on my face that I must stop writing and I refuse to take hints. And, I can toil without encouragement.
A mediocre that I am, it required some hard self-talk to shake off my indolence: “Won’t you be good at anything? It’s not about coming up in life, but in your own eyes. Forget getting anything done, can’t you get something going?” I needed to have something going. After many years of wallowing in false self-esteem and perceived deservedness for every attainment, I finally faced my mediocrity that wore cloaks of protective lies. Upskilling, personal effectiveness, or anything socially aspirational has never been my strong suit. Reading satisfies me and doesn’t require outside evaluation. That was good enough!
Even while reading, a desire to master the subject or reading one discipline thoroughly kept surfacing. I again admonished myself, “It’s a trap, Idiot. Keep going. A satisfying meal consists of satisfying morsels.” I had two choices: Stay frustrated without reading or read without pretension and expectation. I chose the latter: Picked up a book and poured over every sentence till I hit the last page.
It was my final battle for preservation of self-worth. I was determined to take control of at least one sphere of my life and let other cares go to the wall. When fiction wore me out, I picked up non-fiction. I had inspiration from friends whose list of completed books pulled up paginated search results on goodreads.
Was it the challenge I was enjoying or the actual act of reading? Both. I couldn't read if I didn’t enjoy it; not 40 books certainly. And I needed a goal to keep me in the game. I hope the momentum of this year sees me through the next when I plan to do some intellectual heavy lifting. I wish to build my mind for deeper conversations when I am alone and not trifle with shallow opinions. I am aware it’s not the quantity but the quality of reading that will get me there.
Has reading made me knowledgeable? Does listening to a song make me a singer? I can enjoy a song without carrying a tune myself. I may not even remember most of what I have read. But, it was exciting to be reading authors whose company I couldn't keep. Reading is what I enjoy, writing is what I appreciate. Art consists in its appreciation, rather, art is its appreciation.
Good literature is evocative. It sensitises me to my deepest feelings and attitudes. It pulls me into emotional orbits which I can never otherwise traverse. It liberates my mind from timid imagination and helps me observe with a forgiving eye.
The joy of reading good literature runs deep. It only needs interest and active involvement. How often I have let out a squeak when an indescribable sentiment is articulated in chiselled diction, or an argument advanced with baffling precision. Literature weaves magic into meaning. From those books, I believe, some bit of that magic must have percolated into my psyche. It won’t show as a bright halo around my head for sure.
Some evident benefits of long-term reading are improved mental stamina and longer attention span. While it also improved my sleep; having slept well, I can read without falling asleep again. It was fascinating to possess an unflickering attention page after page. Previously, I couldn’t read if I was agitated. Now, I calm my agitation by reading.
During this reading marathon, I have got over my fixation to a physical book. Now, I prefer reading on my Kindle. The ease of looking up meaning and highlighting text is a very compelling case for reading on a digital device (not a back-lit device if you care for your eyes). All books are rendered to the same light weight is another advantage. But, I am still alive to the aesthetics of a physical book.
I tried listening to audiobooks. I realized it’s not suited for the kind of books I read. I am not gifted with the proverbial flame-in-a-windless-place focus. I always come back to the point where my attention wavered off course. An audiobook is cumbersome in that sense. Listening to someone else read could be anything but reading. It’s as if my page turns are timed; if I don’t make it to the end of the page in the stipulated time, the page turns over. What happens to comprehension and savouring, the very life and blood of reading. I am not comfortable with the blankness that gathers before my eyes when concentration rests on my ears.
Overall, I am quite satisfied with my reading and will gloat over it for a while. One regret less before I die. Unfortunately, I can’t say the same about my writing. Like I said, when my efforts are exposed to outside evaluation, I rarely make a mark. I have written some book reviews and menaced my limited readership. I understand it needs a rare-to-come-by generosity to suffer mediocre writing. My sympathies are with my readers! The problem is they don’t tell me on my face that I must stop writing and I refuse to take hints. And, I can toil without encouragement.
My book reviews from 2022:
- Preparing for Death by Arun Shourie
- The Story of Philosophy by Will Durant
- Heart of Darkness by Joseph Conrad
- The Tales of Beedle the Bard by J K Rowling
- An Outline of Philosophy by Bertrand Russell
My book reviews from yesteryears:
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Comments
Great self reflection and looking forward to more 👏👏