Letter to a younger reader

Dear A.,

Your message arrived while I was looking for a receipt in a book. I found three receipts, a shopping list and a photograph, but not the receipt I needed. This is probably a more useful description of my reading habits than the one you were hoping for.

You asked how I choose what to read, and whether I still finish everything. I don't. There are several books on my shelves with bookmarks a third of the way through. One has survived two house moves in that condition. I keep thinking the next winter will be its winter.

At your age I would have found this embarrassing. I kept a list in the back of my diary: title, author, date finished. There was nothing wrong with the list. It helped me remember what I had read, and I liked seeing the months fill up. The trouble came when I began choosing short books in December to make the number look better.

The books I leave

Last week I stopped reading a novel that two friends had loved. I could follow it perfectly well, but I kept choosing other things to do. Even cleaning the oven looked inviting. After the third evening I put it back on the shelf and told one of the friends. She laughed. She had abandoned a book I gave her for Christmas.

This was a relief. We talked for half an hour about the parts we had liked. Neither of us needed the other to finish.

I make an exception for books that are difficult in a way I find interesting. There is a difference, for me, between losing the thread and having no wish to pick it up. Sometimes I need to go back ten pages, read a review for context or leave a book alone until the weekend. I can't usually tell which sort of difficulty it is from the first chapter.

So I don't have a rule about page fifty. I have books I return to and books I return to the library. Occasionally one changes category.

The books I keep nearby

At the moment there are three beside my bed: a borrowed novel, a collection of letters and a book about repairing old furniture. The last is mostly diagrams. It has been surprisingly useful, though I still managed to put a hinge on backwards.

The letters are the book I keep opening in the morning. I know several of them well enough to recognise a sentence before I reach it. On a first reading I followed the writers' quarrels and reconciliations. Now I linger over what they ate, whether the train arrived and how often one of them apologised for a late reply. Those details seemed incidental a few years ago.

I used to underline the sentences I thought sounded impressive. Now I mark the ones I want to ask someone about. This has made my margins less dignified. Beside one solemn passage I have written, 'Really?' Beside another, 'Ask A.' That one is for you when you visit.

I do still keep notes, although they are brief. A title, the name of the person who lent it to me, sometimes a line about where I was when I read it. These notes are very good at reminding me to return books. They are less good at producing clever opinions at dinner.

Bring whichever book you are halfway through when you come in July. We can sit in the garden and read for a while. You don't have to bring a book you think I will approve of. I would rather hear about the one that has been keeping you up.

Love, M.