I love asking my male friends if they’ve read any good books lately. They all, very cutely, do the exact same thing: a hissing intake of breath, a squint of self-disappointment in the eyes, a guilty grimace around the chops, and then words along the lines of: “I know, I know… I should, but… time… knackered… life, aaargh”. There’s never any hint of objection to the question being asked: they all deep down feel like they should be reading. I’ve seen this reaction from some pals for 15 years or more now, to the point where I’m fairly sure zero books are getting read. So today, I’d like to invite anyone who never reads but still pretends they do to join me on a leap into the cultural unknown. Okay, I’ll go first: I honestly, genuinely don’t read books.
Some things you should know about me to start with: I didn’t grow up in a house full of books. I definitely never saw my dad read. I don’t have any of the common neurocognitive differences that might affect reading, such as dyslexia or attention deficit hyperactivity disorder. I don’t have a crippling addiction to social media (I’ve never even been on the platform formerly known as Twitter). Crucially, I do actually like reading, but pretty much just journalism, which I’ve mainlined what feels like my whole life. I just cannot for the life of me do anything in book format – especially fiction, which is frustrating because I otherwise really like its constituent components like dialogue, character and plot. I think I’m a relatively normal person, with a good sense of empathy and understanding for others. But boy oh boy, is this hard to convey in a world that prostrates itself upon books.
