We’re at summer’s last pivot towards fall. Meteorologically speaking, we have another 2.5 weeks of summer to go, but we all know the Labour Day weekend is the last relaxed sigh of the season.
This weekend is our last accounting of how we’ve spent the summer.
Have we camped out as much as we’d hoped and planned when we were awaiting summer temperatures back in mid-July? Have we fired up the barbecue often enough? Have we spent all the days we wanted lounging at the beach? Have we not just started but finished the projects around the house and yard. Have we fit in all the naps we possibly could?
The end-of-season accounting coincides roughly with Read a Book Day, on Tuesday. For some reason, likely with deep psychological import, I seem to mis-read it as “Read a Book a Day” and, at a subconscious level, take the directive to heart.
And despite the best of my intentions, the stack of books amassed over the summer remains as tall as ever. As quickly as I go through books, the pile of potential summer reading material continually refreshes.
The selective sorting process that has floated some titles to the top of the pile and deep-sixed others emphasizes my recent preferences.
This season has been the summer of the mystery. The potato chips of the pile — “Bet you can’t read just one” — I usually consumed them quickly, effortlessly and with enjoyment.
They travelled well to the backyard, the beach, the picnic table, the sofa, up a mountain or two, in line, as well as to a coffee shop where I waited for friends.
Furthermore, I find the genre doesn’t come with the built-in serving of guilt or sense of shameless frivolity attached to some other genres.
Yes, some authors carry some of that more than others — authors we tend to love to read/love to hate — but I can read a mystery unselfconsciously in public without secretly wishing I’d bought the ebook instead or had a dust jacket of Hawking’s Brief History of Time (possibly the world’s most unread book) to wrap around the book I’m actually reading.
And despite the standard formulae, the mystery genre comprises diversity and breadth. I’ve managed to mix in some well-researched history, some pointed social and political commentary, and even some pointy-headed in-tel-lec-tual-ism among the usual potboilers.
Literary fiction has had a more erratic tenure in the stack. The specific author, theme, subject, style and approach of each book has determined the book’s trajectory. Well-written and engaging material — “serious” or “light” — moved along quickly.
Stories that failed to engage have also moved speedily but in a different way. I’ll never be able to read all the books I want to read. I now give myself permission to put aside books that disappoint.
As it is, I’ve always found the judgement that literary fiction should be taken more seriously than other genres snobbish and somewhat specious.
A book categorized as romance or science fiction can delve into issues as socially fraught as a literary tome can. They are equally capable of capturing and commenting in unique ways on the human condition.
In the end, qualities such as the originality of the story and voice, the development of the characters, the quality of plotting and writing, and so on separate books read to the end from those put aside.
Then there are what we might call the “worthy books.” Most of these were purchased during passing episodes of well-intentioned self-improvement… or something.
Not surprisingly, the books about the driest and densest matters consistently anchor the pile. The exposition on economic theory and the treatise on proteomics will surely provide enlightenment, if not endless entertainment, when I get around to them. Both sank to the bottom of the pile almost immediately after purchase and haven’t budged since.
However, I haven’t given up on them yet. The year is turning the corner on the seasons, and shorter, cooler, more serious days are pending. Those weighty tomes may be the basis of next season’s reading rota.
If nothing else, they’ll make for good bedtime reading.
