‘What happens to one happens to us all.’

D I V E   I N

​

Reading

 

​

 

 

There’s a famous line in A Dance with Dragons by George R.R. Martin that goes, ‘A reader lives a thousand lives before he dies. The man who never reads lives only one.’

​

     *                                                  *                                                *

​

We’ve been reading for 5,000 years. The birth of writing (visual signs that represented spoken sounds) and reading began in ol’ Mesopotamia. Markings in clay developed into a highly complex script (each syllable corresponding to a specific sign), which was used to document laws and official king business. Trained scribes paved the way for early authors of fiction, and public readings became a form of entertainment — so much so that ‘silent reading’ (or to us today, just reading) was considered curious until around the 13th century. With the invention of the printing press shortly after, ‘silent reading’ became the norm and so literacy grew. 
 

     *                                                  *                                                *

 

It’s both shocking and humbling to be reminded that not everyone can read. Around 700 million people on our planet are illiterate. In most cases it’s due to poverty; past or present. Years ago, I asked my dad to forward a letter I had written to my grandma who, at the time, lived 6,000 miles away. I was surprised (and later, embarrassed at my oblivion) to discover that my grandma couldn’t read her native language (or any written language). My grandma, a girl in rural southern China, was never taught to read. (Fortunately, she still received my sentiments — my dad read the letter to her over the phone.) Today in China and her adopted home Hong Kong, literacy rates are almost at 100 percent. Her illiteracy was a product not only of poverty but societal norms. In African countries south of the Sahara, the current high illiteracy rates are mainly due to poverty. Times may have changed, but in many nations poverty, and thus education, has not.

 

     *                                                  *                                                *

​

As humans are wont to do, those of us who can and do read have categorised ourselves as such. ‘Are you a reader?’ a stranger might ask at a party. ‘I’m a reader’, someone might say, faux apologetically, shoulders shrugging, as they balance a teetering stack of books in their arms. Unfortunately, as with most things, the reason for asking or declaring seems to have nothing to do with the actual act of reading. Reading has retained the reputation it had many moons ago: education, intelligence, wealth, and status.

​

Yep, old-fashioned snobbery continues to exist in all arts, including literature. It’s not only if you read but what you read that seems to matter an awful lot to other people — and not always because they’re looking for a recommendation. The coinage and usage of ‘chicklit’ is a prime example. This portmanteau of the late ‘90s refers to popular, female-centric, light-hearted fiction read by young women. There’s a pejorative undertone to the use of ‘chick’, which suggests that the readers of such books are frivolous or less intelligent than those who read classics or ‘serious’ stories. Luckily, the word faded out of the zeitgeist a few years after its emergence.

​

Yet the pressure to read the ‘right’ things is still alive and well thanks in large part to social media. Today it’s likely that being seen to be reading a specific book is reason enough for some to read. Of course (thankfully), all of the ‘old’ reasons still exist too. Some of us read to escape or find salvation. We lurk in inconspicuous cafes on spy missions, embark on unexpected romances with unexpected strangers, and discover places riddled with secrets or abundant with possibilities. Then there are those of us who read primarily to learn something specific; how to tie different knots, the history of the Mediterranean, why it’s called ketchup. Perhaps somehow straddling the two are the people (myself included) who open a book in order to relate. We gravitate towards characters or real-life people we share a commonality with — a circumstance, an ethnicity, a location, a career title, an illness, a desperate desire to travel or bake. Of course, some of us read simply to pass the time.

​

Somewhat unbelievably, if you read, what you read, and why you read aren’t the only categorisations that exist in the book world.

​

     *                                                  *                                                *

 

When e-books emerged on the scene, readers were bisected: physical book-ers and e-book-ers. Internet arguments ran amok. Suddenly, there were debates about eye strain and metacarpal health, romance versus convenience, and the increase or decrease of books bought in different formats. For the most part, the important stuff in any type of book (including audiobooks, which rose in popularity shortly after e-books) is the same: the words, the author, the title. But there’s something else, something that can’t be measured or quantified, that stands between mediums: feeling.

 

Science tells us that there’s energy in every object. It stands to reason that the energy in an orange will be different to that of a crisp, and thus, an old book to that of an iPad. It’s also fair to say that the reading medium itself likely affects the way you experience a book. The mustiness of an inherited book or the grainy feel of the pages in your hands probably has an impact on both the act of reading and your opinion of what’s being read. Just the same, the uniformity and clarity of words on a screen and further, the tablet in your hand, might subtly colour your experience.

 

The physical book vs. e-book debate has mostly lost its spark now (we have more pressing issues to be divisive and snipey about online), but looking back, it’s surprising that humanity was rarely mentioned in the assessment. When we consider the human element, physical books seem to acquire a new edge. The woman in the bookshop who recognises you and recommends titles based on your last conversation or the badge on your coat. The book that has travelled all the way from Nina’s bedroom in ‘70s Naples, according to the scribbled letters in the front, and ended up here in your hands. The sales assistant whose professional façade disappears when you mention your love of Dorothy Sayers; both of his hands pressed on the customer service desk, wide eyes, body bent forward, like he has found his person at last. The people without technological devices who are able to access books in libraries or bookshops or community centres.

​

     *                                                  *                                                *
 

Recently, a friend sent me a meme about reading that sums it all up.

​

List of Books to Read Before You Die:
1. Any book you want
2. Don’t read books you don’t want to read

3. That’s it

4. Congratulations you did it

R E A D S   F O R   W H E N E V E R​

 

Heartburn — Nora Ephron

 

Everything from Nora Ephron is gold (You’ve Got Mail! When Harry Met Sally! Every single essay!), and that includes Heartburn. The main event of this short fictional read actually happened to Ephron, but names, subplots, and certain details were changed and added. Always able to find hilarity, irony, and joy in heartbreak and devastation, Ephron sees her protagonist trying to keep her life together when her relationship falls apart. A collection of recipes are woven throughout, too. It’s easy to read, totally charming, and a serious contender for your go-to book when you need comfort, joy, or just a little laugh at the insanity of people, relationships, and the world itself.

R O O T S​

 

Awkward

​

‘Awkward’ has taken on a specific life of its own in recent years (exhibit A: awkward turtle. Exhibit B: ‘awks’), but it can be applied to an array of situations or people, from embarrassing to fussy. In fact, our understanding of it today doesn’t stray far from its origin: it was coined in 14th century Middle English as a combination of awk meaning back-handed and weard/ward, a directional suffix. Thus, it meant ‘in the wrong direction’. In the 1500s, ‘clumsy’ was added to the mix. A century later, Shakespeare used it to describe an ungraceful action. ‘Awkward’ continued to develop; in the 1700s it meant ‘embarrassed’ or ‘ill at ease’, and in the late 1800s, it referred to someone or something that was difficult to deal with (such as a client).