April 2004

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I saw a discussion a while back about whether or not what one chose to read for pleasure should be a hallmark of intellect. In other words, if one read what might be considered easy books, rather than those with shall we say much food for thought, should one be ashamed?

I really don't think so. I couldn't think of a good way to phrase my opinion at the time, so I stayed out of the discussion. Later on, though, I was writing to a friend and my opinion became clear to me.

I am secure in my own intellect, and my reading interests have changed over time. So I don't worry too much about who reads what, or who may do something better than I do. If turning fifty let me give myself permission to be more open about things like depression and sex, turning thirty let me give myself permission not to worry about not being good at certain things and to concentrate my energies on those things I enjoyed.

For the record, turning forty didn't have a watershed attached to it. I was too busy trying to deal with the realities of my mother's situation.

The general theme of the aforementioned discussion included the notion of being intimidated by the readers of the heavier-weight tomes. I advocate not getting intimidated. I recommend realizing one's own gifts and talents, and acting accordingly.

And by all means, read whatever you please.