BiblioAddict

It seems as if every week there’s a new scary article about how people just aren’t reading as much as they used to in the glory days (case in point: this one, though it is wittily funny).  Don’t ask this reader when these supposed “glory days” were since she has absolutely no idea. What she does know is that she’s read so many articles announcing the imminent funeral and wake of reading that she’s likely to explode with annoyance and frustration.

Don’t get me wrong, I care as much about reading (or, rather, the lack thereof in contemporary society) as much as the next bibliophile, but these panicked articles coming from the publishers, and the critics, and the librarians, and the teachers, and whoever else decides to poll and study our reading habits is beginning to smack of literary fear-mongering.

It annoys me that, as if I don’t have enough to be worried about – Is the man knocking on my door at 3 am in dire need of help or is he a sociopathic killer? Is today the day the terrorists bomb the D.C. subway on my way to work? – I’m also now supposed be to worried if my neighbor will read at least one novel this year that doesn’t star a certain Harry Potter and isn’t on the bestseller list.

Again, don’t get me wrong. The fact that people don’t read as much as they probably should is a big cultural problem. But, enough already! Yes, reading is dying, but what are we doing about it? It no longer scares me that reading is declining. What scares me is that for all of this talk about the death of culture and informed criticism, there doesn’t seem to be very much action to combat this downward spiral. If there is, this reader certainly isn’t hearing about it.

And according to all of the literary undertakers populating the papers today, if something isn’t done soon, we may all find ourselves faced with this horrific scene:

It is a dark and lonely night sometime in the near future. You find yourself walking down a deserted street when suddenly out of the darkness and fog emerges the tall, dark figure of a man, headed in your direction. As his face hits the streetlights you see that his sharp features bear the menacing stamp of a serial killer: his eyes are sunken, his hair stands on end, and his mouth looks as if it’s on the verge of a threatening grimace. His large body is cloaked in a black trench coat and his hands are thrust into its bulging pockets; it doesn’t take much for you to imagine a small knife or gun gripped in his sweaty hidden palms.

Nervously, you clutch the small can of mace in your own pocket, prepared to spray with vengeance if necessary. All too soon, you find yourself within five feet of this potential murderer. Suddenly, his glittering eyes alight on your face, and your heart stops beating. You grip the can of mace harder and your voice catches in your throat when, without warning, as he passes, the man grabs you with one hand and shoves something in your face with the other.

Fear and panic clutches your stomach, but before you remember your mace you recognize the object he’s waving in your face – a small paperback. It isn’t until he says, “So…what about that new James Patterson?” that you begin to scream. You kick the horrible man in the shins, spray him in his surprised eyes and make your escape. As you run away from the terrible man and his horrific literature, you hear him stumble to his feet and inquire with bloodcurdling curiosity: “Ah! What did you think of the last Harry Potter? Miss! What about that Harry Potter?”

Oh, the horror! The horror!