Hiatus

"At least five times, therefore, with the Arian and Albigensian, and the Humanist skeptic, after Voltaire, and after Darwin, the Faith has by all appearance gone to the dogs. And in each of these five cases, it was the dog that died." -- G.K. Chesterton, The Everlasting Man

Has it really been a week since last I blogged? It is 15 days into the experiment, and all has gone awry! Fifteen days, at 3.65 per would mean that I should be through 4.1 books. But I alas, I just closed the dust jacket on number three. Life happens. Then again, my romance of literature was late blossoming. This was all foreshadowed.

I didn't learn to read until I was well into the first grade. I was relegated to the "slow" readers' circle in elementary school. I just didn't seem to grasp letters and phonics. Then, it clicked. Although it is too long now to have a clear timeline, it was probably fairly closely matched to the discovery that I was, in fact, near-sighted, and required bifocals at the beginning of the second grade! Sight, after all, being a useful attribute for the act of reading...

And then, as if to make up for lost time, I began a torrid affair with books. The Hardy Boys series was devoured ravenously, plot by set-piece plot. I confess, I dabbled in Nancy Drew, and even when terribly hard-up, a Babysitter's Club. Certainly, I had not developed a distinguishing taste for good literature in those days.

Growing up in a smaller community, I had a close bond with the local library. Many an hour was spent in the stacks. I loved their books, and they loved the late fines I racked up in my absent-mindedness. I believe there may be a new wing named after me, erected solely with the trady taxes levied against me and paid by my mother most trips. Suffice it to say, I read and re-read nearly every book in the building I had any interest in.

It was not that I enjoyed books. I enjoyed them TOO much. When other kids were being grounded or lost TV privileges, I was getting books confiscated. My mom would summon me to dinner, but I was lost in my novel, oblivious to all around me. I learned to read in cars, upside down (a very useful skill in police work), after-dark (with flashlight), and most significantly- fast.

This skill, combined with my knowledge of a wide range of techno-thriller authors typically producing works in the 600-700 page range allowed me to dominate the "Reading Across America" reading contest in junior high. Tom Clancy, I still owe you a few fountain drinks at the Kerr McGee.

Books were an escape. It was exciting to enjoy a new book, and thus find a new favorite author, reading the rest of their repertoire. It was still more exhilarating to discover what authors influenced THOSE authors, to travel back by generations in literary geneology.

But to be a bibliophile can be a lonely business. The digital age has cut and cut and cut. This blog itself is evidence our reading is becoming diminutive. We no longer want the long version. "Gimme the Reader's Digest," is the frequent request. Who can take the time to read a full-length novel anymore? The avant garde, grad students, and other authors. And so, I found myself in the last few years reading less and less. Three kids and two jobs can do that. So too, the digital kudzu grows thick.

G.K. Chesterton's 'The Everlasting Man" has been placed back on the shelf. A fine, if windy read. Chesterton's style evokes a smoky conversation in a pub, preferably over Stout. It is jovial- almost jocular. His charm is his complete disregard for political correctness. He calls Darwinism a "dog". Really. He calls 'em, how he sees them, and somehow ends any major point on an uplifting note, so much so that my normally pessimistic outlook is buoyed by his accurate placement of our human predicament in the context of the history of the world. A great read for anyone who finds Christianity peculiar (it is), and therefore beautiful (it is).

And so it was that I found myself waiting for a court case while reading Walter Miller's "A Canticle for Liebowitz". This is one of my favorite books. More to come on this, but any American novel about the role of books, monasticism, and intrigue in a post-apocalyptic world is a timely read right now. Bank on it.

One can analyze my motivation for any of my more ridiculous and contrarian beliefs, but the motivation for this experiment is simple. I forgot how much I loved reading, and it's time I remembered.

Book on!