I have never understood how
people live in this world when they don’t read. I have (mostly) grown
past the point where I judge these people; I’m marrying one of these
people. Reading is hard for him; it takes more concentration than he’d
like to give to a flat page of text; he’d rather move, deconstruct,
reassemble. This is truly okay.
And yet, I don’t know how
he does it, staying in this world of this now every minute of every day.
I don’t think I’d survive.
And I know my work
wouldn’t.
My sense of the world is
shaped by what I’ve read as much – maybe more – than it is by the people I
know, the places I’ve been, the jobs I’ve done. I’ve been reading longer
than I’ve been doing most anything beyond the simplest of human function –
breathing, eating, ...sleeping, talking. And while I don’t read
while I talk or sleep, I wish I could.
So when it’s hard for me to
understand how the man I love most in the world does not like to read, I truly
don’t understand it when writers don’t read. In fact, I think it’s wrong when
writers don’t read. For a writer to not read is like my fiance, the
quintessential car guy to not try to figure out every car in a film by its
dashboard or to not want to understand all the aspects of how an engine in our
new car works. It just doesn’t make sense.
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