I think I understand why writers must write. It’s really no different than why sketchers must draw or why dancers must move, but why do we read? Why do we engage in this intensely self-centered activity with books? And what’s even more perplexing to me is why our society seems to exalt this particular kind of internal isolation, because, for the most part, it raises a collective eyebrow at meditators or deep, introspective thinkers. It wouldn’t be considered socially acceptable to spend much time playing golf by yourself, or going to movies by yourself, or drinking by yourself (certainly not), but almost all of us feel differently about reading.
My friend Danny would say we must read to train and develop the mind—to understand influences and work backward to the early sources, the original premises.
My “big sissy” is a librarian, so I asked her, and she said that reading makes us a more interesting person—reading may be solitary, but it’s not inherently selfish.
Watkins, Wolfe, Hammett, Hemingway, Twain . . . Why do I read their fiction? What am I looking for?
Every so often, I find myself listening to the lyrics of Eric, a talented friend. He writes:
You can seek your life to find
Answers that satisfy your mind,
But Jesus spared your life by giving his,
And, Brother— That’s all there is.