Lost in a Book
Recently Anna and I caught up with our three children living in Sydney to celebrate the university graduation of our two youngest. Given they would not be spending time reading academic papers, I selected several of my favourite novels as a gift in the hope they would return to their childhood reading days.
Both seemed rather bemused as I enthusiastically explained my interest in one of the novels. When they were tiny, we read to them and brought enticing stories. We told them about the joys of reading; the thrill of having a book at hand, this trapdoor into another world that can be slipped into a coat pocket.
After exalting my praise for the books, they both rolled their eyes, shrugged their shoulders, and told us they would wait for the film; and thanked us for the thought! This caused us great sadness. Our house is full of books. We feel we have failed them. Where did we go wrong? Perhaps we were lucky to grow up before Netflix.
I remember the model Elle Macpherson was once asked about her reading habits. ‘Oh’, she answered, ‘I never read anything I haven’t written myself’. She was much mocked at the time, but social media has now left many people in much the same situation. They only read what they have written themselves or what their friends have written in their shared circle; or worst, what has been curated for them by algorithms designed to match their existing enthusiasms and interests. We seem to have created a universe in which every person is a sun about whom all planets revolve.
Every keen reader has had that experience of being ‘lost in a book’. It is the phrase we habitually use because it is so accurate to the sensation. You find yourself entirely inside the world of the book, oblivious even to your physical circumstances. Your bad knee stops aching, your cup of tea goes cold and, most importantly, your worries evaporate. Whatever you are dealing with, Madame Bovary has it worst!
During the last few weeks, I have been interviewing prospective families to Marist. Without exception, each of the primary aged boys said they read every night and they were able to name their current book and the main characters in that book. What happens after that? Does the pace of life turn us into non-readers?
Last weekend we returned to Sydney for a significant family event. On arrival, both of my youngest children were sitting on the couch reading. One exclaimed that David Malouf is a wonderful writer. He said this with a tone of reproach, as if to say, ‘Why didn’t you ever tell us about this reading thing?’ I felt my heart skip in delight.
Matthew Hutchison
Headmaster
