I like to read. All those who are paying strict attention to the "Books I'm Reading" corner of this blog may realize that Tale of Two Cities has been there, stubbornly, for now months. Yes, I'm still bookmarked near the beginning of the pulsing, wild violence and mushy heroics haven't even been foreshadowed. Sometimes I watch movies instead of reading books, but I really like to read.
Maybe you misunderstand me. I can't not read. I'm in the shower and I read the backs of all my shampoo bottles, which is becoming sort of a matins. I read the backs of cereal boxes, the titles of books people I walk by are reading, the headlines of Soap Opera Weekly at the check stand. I pity those who are functionally illiterate as much as those who can't read in the car. Or those who can't read while walking. I can't brush my teeth or take a bath until I've selected something to skim. I read through a cookbook today, reading all of the comments from the women who sent in the recipes: "This was a favorite at our church's fellowshipping potlucks," "My mother-in-law used to make this every Christmas," "Our children love breaking up the cookies for the crust." On my mission, I would read half an article in the Ensign before I went to bed so that when my alarm clock went off I'd jump out of bed and pray so that I could finish it. I've read every Ensign published since Russia was opened for the preaching of the gospel.
Maybe I get it from my dad, who sometimes reads, aloud, every sign and billboard we speed past on the freeway. Anyway, it's probably more from him than from my mom, who reads properly. She would have been done with Tale of Two Cities and on to Bleak House by now. It's probably less of an intellectual pursuit and more of a nervous disorder. Still I have the advantage of often being able to mentioned that I had read something some where. Then the question is, "and where exactly was I?"