worrying about my reading habits

Am I reading enough?
Am I reading enough contemporary fiction?
Have I read enough of the classics?
Do I read enough literature in translation?
Is it a problem that my reading choices are scattered, random, unstructured?
Dare I confess that I have never been a voracious reader? That I never read under the bedclothes with a torch as a child? That I was bored when my mother dragged us into bookshops on the school holidays? That now, entering a bookshop often engenders mild panic, a sick feeling in my stomach, pangs of unwanted jealousy?
Do I read closely enough, with enough care? Or am I just crossing another book off a mental list, reading so I can move the book from one of the many piles onto a bookshelf?
Why do I have to consciously make time to read? How can I guard against reading becoming merely a chore? Do I ever read simply for pleasure? Can I ever switch off the writing part of my brain?
Should I read more poetry magazines? Fewer?
Why do I feel guilty on those rare occasions I abandon a book?
Do I spend more time reading reviews of books rather than actual books? Is it wrong to read with half an ear tuned to the radio? Have I just been revisited by The Interrogative Mood? Isn’t it wonderful how a book can infect you?


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