Every English manor house comes with its own reading room, which is my favorite site in movies about the Brits, whether they are cozy mysteries or variations of Downton Abbey. We, of course, never lived in a place with a separate library, although we came close during our first year in Corvallis, Oregon, a town not like any thatched-roof village in the mid-lands. Nevertheless, our rental home did include a formal study with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves along three walls and a large window with its own built-in bench. Although those English films might have the hero, or especially the heroine, reading while lounging in that nook, I never cozied up in ours, with a book in hand. I preferred a more comfortable chair. The ideal one would have a soft, wing-back on which I could rest my head while traveling to far-off times and places.
I actually found such a chair and a special location during the four years I lived in Ithaca, New York and attended Cornell University. Being a graduate student, who was suppose to be either experimenting in the biochemistry laboratory or studying in a cramped corral in the library, I enjoyed escaping, several time a week, to the library in Willard Straight Hall. This Student Center, designed as an English collegiate hall, had a magnificent two-story library with its own quiet nooks and comfortable wing-back chairs. With great guilt, I occupied one of them to become engrossed with science-fiction stories in lieu of the biochemical facts I should have been examining, elsewhere. After all, reading was the only way in which to separate a beleaguered mind from the surrounding reality. Now, there are computer games and social-media to benumb the overactive brain. Back then, there were only books.
I became addicted to them at an early age, although I cannot recall where I consumed them. I remember how much I enjoyed fairy-tales when I was in elementary school. There were the classic offerings of the Grimm Brothers and Hans Christian Anderson. At the time, I did not realize that they were actually psychological texts designed for educating the minds of children about the world to come. Later in life, I realized that mythology from Greece, Rome, Scandinavia, Japan and the American tribal nations had the same mission.
I probably engaged in these adventures while tucked away in my bedroom, although I do not recall any special furniture I required for my fictional travels. No doubt my bed was the locale, since I do recall piles of books piled on the night-stand beside it. I seldom confined myself to finishing one book before starting another. Science-fiction and mysteries written under the name of Ellery Queen could be readily intermingled. The Roman Hat Mystery and The Greek Coffin Mystery mixed well with stories by Ray Bradbury and Isaac Asimov. Most of them were read in daily, noon-hour sessions in the Niles McKinley library, a block away from my high school, where I spent most of the time allotted for the mid-day lunch, carried there in brown-bags which the librarian must have ignored. A site near the front door had comfortable chairs and plenty of fiction books for spontaneous reading during rainy weather or cold, wintery, slush-filled days. However, most of my reading-for-fun was undertaken during the summer months and in outdoor settings.
Since reading during the school year was required mainly for course work, June through August would be set aside for reading other books. The best place was on the swing, either on the porch of the house we rented, or the one hidden by a tall, pine tree in front of my grandmother’s farm-house. Reading for pleasure became part of a slow, back-and-fourth movement. Later, this pleasure could be derived from the swing, itself, while contemplating the thoughts in my mind coming from sources other than printed words on a page.
Several years ago, I discovered it is possible to read while engaged in another form of movement. It is not difficult to read from an e-book while pedaling a stationary bike in the gym at Eagle’s Trace. While I’m quite willing to read from an electronic book, I am still partial to the one with hand-turned pages. I also admit that some books are so heavy that they can be wearisome to hold and difficult to prop up on one’s stomach. When reading fiction, I am reluctant to sit at a table or desk, as I once had to do in order to pursue the contents of a science text.
Many people claim to enjoy reading while sitting in an open café and sipping a cup; I prefer to watch people passing by, rather than confine my sight to mere letters. There are multiple forms of isolation; in some, the observer can see more of the immediate world than the one held in the mind, itself.
Outdoor reading and observing can be compatible. Indoor reading is usually devoid of an opportunity for observation of the world around us. I do, however, enjoy sitting in a comfortable lounge chair with my feet up, while engaging in reading current novels, mysteries, science-fiction, history or philosophy. There is a time when I found multi-tasking to be possible – watching TV and reading during the commercials. Concentration is now more difficult. The same is true for reading in bed.
There were years, not too long ago, when I did a lot of reading while reclining on a day-bed couch in my study. Late at night, I may still spend twenty or thirty minutes propped up in my bed, which can be adjusted to various positions for comfortable reading. However, when reclining, my tendency is to close my eyes much sooner than I once did.
During my early years, reading fiction or even non-fiction was required in order to move away from the surrounding world. My thoughts were made from the words of other people. Now, in recent years, I have found that contemplation and meditation do not depend upon the written word. I am content to confine my reading room to the space within my own mind. It abides within me no matter where I roam.