READ ON!

“So Many Books, So Little Time.”

For decades, I’ve seen this written on T-shirts, coffee cups, bumper stickers, book markers, etc.

It’s even the main title of a book by Sara Nelson, which I haven’t had time to read yet. So Many Books, So Little Time: A Year of Passionate Reading was published in 2004.

In the past quarter century, you’d think that I would’ve found time to at least read her book since 25 years IS. A. LOT. OF. TIME.

I get antsy and angsty thinking about the passage of time.

If there was “so little time” 25 years ago, it goes without saying that there is even less time to read now, especially for someone like me soon to turn 60, the death-knell number of middle-aged status, the official, dreaded door knock to old age status. My “book of life” pages have started to yellow, the fanning of its pages wafting a denser mustiness, like the thickening of bad morning breath as we age.

There are more books that I’ve read in my past than there will be books that I’ll read in my future. Younger people think they will get to them all, with time to spare. I can’t think of a sadder thought than that of a deathbed book dog-eared at page 60.

Just when did my reading days of wishful thinking morph into days of wistful thinking?

The subject of reading (well … not reading) arose during a recent therapist visit.

“How’s your marriage?”

“My marriage is great. It’s the only solid part of me.”

“Can you tell me more?”

“Things that brought me pure joy most of my life gradually have lost their magic.”

“What things?”

“Very important things.”

“Like?”

“Music. Songs that brought me great joy just don’t do it for me anymore. Remember as a kid when you heard that favorite song on the radio … finally … days might’ve passed since you last heard it … and it meant so freaking much to you … when that radio dial conjured that song that you were starving for … maybe you bought the 8-track, the 45, the album, the cassette, the CD … just to have easier access to that song … but no matter how many times that song spun or unspooled, it maintained its magic … but now … now … you can play any song anytime anywhere thanks to streaming … and well … you end up playing it so many freaking times that it loses its earhole mojo … as B.B. King sings, ‘The thrill is gone.’ And even that song has lost its thrill. And movies. Movies suck now. All this comic book hero horse hockey and prequels and sequels and remakes. Movies used to be my life. Like music! And books! Like I said, I used to read all the time. But not anymore. Now, it’s like I’ve forgotten how to read. Night reading is out of the question … I fall asleep after two paragraphs. Mostly, my wife and I spend our married time streaming Netflix, Prime, Max, Hulu, Paramount, Apple TV, and PBS instead of opening books … and guess what … the next day neither one of us can even remember what we watched! Never ever have I forgotten what book I had my nose in the night before …”

“But your marriage is good.”

“Married life is good.”

“Have you thought about not turning on the TV and setting aside time to read books with your wife?”

“My marriage is good. Let’s not mess with my marriage. Besides, I’m just not a book group kind of guy.”

My therapist scribbled something in her notebook. She closed The Book of Scott. “I hate to tell you this but your 45 minutes are up,” she said.

And there I was just about to share some trivial revelation about how my parent-like cats keep telling me to murder the paperboy.

Welcome to my point of personal paradox. Despite my period of reading decline, I still buy books. Seven in the past week. My stack of unread titles has surpassed my stack of read titles. Each unread book brings with it a vicious scrotal squeeze. But maybe that’s good. Maybe it’s a sign that my reader’s pulse hasn’t flatlined. Hope remains that I’ll get to those books eventually.

There’s a quote attributed to the late singer-songwriter Warren Zevon that packs a mighty wallop: “We love to buy books because we believe we’re buying the time to read them.” I like how this Zevon-ism occupies the seat opposite of the “so many books, so little time” seat on the great seesaw of life.

Despite knowing Zevon, an avid reader, died at 56 – so little time! – I can’t help but gravitate closer to his side of the teeter-totter now.

Maybe that’s why I buy books that I likely will never read.

Maybe my angst goes deeper than books.

Maybe in this time of “so little time” I’m desperately hoping to buy time.

Maybe I’ll discuss this revelation during my next therapy session. But I’ll have to do it quickly. I only have 45 minutes.

Email Scott at scottsaalman@gmail.com.