'The Love of Reading Is Caught, Not Taught'

I’ve used “home library” to describe the accumulation of books in our house but it’s starting to sound a little pretentious. For now I’ll keep it at “books.” Nadya Williams titles her essay “Home Libraries Will Save Civilization,” which, I understand, is more reader-enticing than “Poorly Organized Stacks of Books Will Save What Remains of Western Civilization.” I sympathize with Williams’ thinking but suspect she’s working a little too hard to convince herself (and us) that she’s genuinely hopeful: 

“In the midst of the (il)literacy crisis unfolding around us, I would like to propose an old-fashioned response: Home libraries will save civilization. Why? Because a home overcrowded with books sets the tone for how its inhabitants spend their time at home. Bored? Read a book. Want something to do for fun? Read a book. Have friends over? Read a book together. Relaxed family night at home? Start a read-aloud.”

 

My first reaction was to think of the “home libraries” I’ve seen that might as well be collections of Hummel figures or bowling trophies. In other words, junk books. Often, the response to this is, “Well, at least he’s reading something.” I find little comfort in that. And a growing number of the literate are aliterate. They read stop signs (usually) but not books. I disregard her concern for the “aesthetics” of home libraries. My only concern is convenience: Can I find the book I’m looking for?

 

Williams is more persuasive when she addresses the impact of reading on family. Kids who regularly see their parents reading are likelier to become readers themselves. No guarantees, but if books are readily available the kids have a fighting chance. Humans are complicated, and predicting their behavior is a mug’s game. My parents were not readers and we had few books in the house. Today is a good time to be an enthusiastic reader. Books bought or borrowed have never been more conveniently available. Williams writes:

 

“Be bold, fill your home with physical books—lots of them!—and see what happens. The results of this particular experiment are nearly guaranteed. But it also requires the parents to live the same bookish life that they would like to instill in their children—a life in which books are cherished companions and a delight to share with family and friends, rather than just that thing one does alone with much visceral suffering and only because of a school requirement.”

 

Based solely on my experience, I question her final thought. I’ve always been a solitary reader. Collective reading, like almost collective anything, would shut me down. About the accuracy of Williams’ closing sentence I have no doubts: “It is a reality not frequently enough acknowledged: like so many other things in life, the love of reading is caught, not taught.” Especially today. When it comes to making books readily available, perhaps within arm’s reach, I’m reminded of C.H. Sisson writing in “On Translating Dante,” the introduction to his version of The Divine Comedy (1980):

 

“[A]ll literary encounters have a certain unceremoniousness about them. We surround ourselves with books so that we can call up Montaigne, or Eckermann, or Virgil, or Andrew Marvell, as the mood takes us or the drift of our interests at the time suggests. There are scores or hundreds of merely casual encounters, and some of more intimate significance.”