On the reading of books.

I have never, never, never been a self-conscious reader.  I generally read what I want, enjoy it, and move on to the next book.  Lately, though, I have been a little self-conscious.  I am ashamed to admit that when people ask what I'm reading, and I have to 'fess up that I am enjoying the latest in the "No. 1 Ladies' Detective Agency" series.  Not the manliest or most challenging read, but whatever; they're good.  But I cringe a little when I say it.  Why?  I honestly have no idea. 


Maybe I feel like I have an image as a smartypants to maintain.  While I do consider myself a fairly smart person, I've never had a problem making a grade-A fool out of myself.  Seriously.  Just ask any of my high school friends or anyone that knew me when I was a youth minister.  They will tell you that I seem to be lacking the part of my brain that defines shame and/or self-respect.


If that's the case, I may have over-corrected.  I am currently reading The Gulag Archipelago by Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn, and this was clearly a case of not knowing what I got myself into.  I know what it's about, I understand the allusion the title makes, and I know the historical importance of this work.  When KB brought me a copy, I noted its length (600 pages!) and figured it would take a while to get to the end.  Then, upon reading the title page, I realized that this was Parts I & II.  The rest of the book is contained in two more volumes.  I may have indeed bitten of more than I can chew from a strictly volumetric standpoint.


The bigger issue at play here is that I can only read so much at once because this book is not only dense, but it is intense.  People are getting arrested and killed left and right, and because of the (frankly, brilliant) way the author frames everything, you feel as though the NKVD is coming  for you (fun side note: the acronym for Russia's counterintel group was SMERSH.  Best, most fun name for a terrifying group of thugs and spies).  Seriously, after ten pages I am emotionally drained because of the investment the author elicits through his prose.

But I'm determined to finish this volume.  I have started too many books and left them aside because they were difficult reads (I see you waving, Yiddish Policemen's Union; settle down).  I'm so emotionally invested in this book, I feel as though I owe it to the people sent to the Gulag.  Perhaps not the most healthy way to get through a book, but I'll make an exception for this one.  So if you see me reading this tome and I look overly worried, concerned, or exhausted, maybe tell me to put the book down and take a few cleansing breaths. 

In Soviet Russia, books read YOU!!