Aconfession: In my later years I have become less of a reader, even as I have become a writer. It has been a terrible trade in many (but not all) ways, effectively severing the taproot of my creative inspiration at the very moment I chose to devote my working hours to churning out prose. But it is also a necessary one. Think of it as the true curse of “living in interesting times” for someone whose gig is political commentary. (“Stop the world, I want to get off” is a sentiment applicable to all times, places, and professions.)
When I pick up a book, it is most likely to be a dry and dusty historical monograph bought at a university library sale; I avoid fiction, especially whatever passes as “modern” nowadays. Yet this was not always the case. My childhood was consumed with reading the greats of world literature — and then reading commentaries and arguments about them, often written by brilliant, ornery scholars like Harold Bloom or Camille Paglia.
Comments