On not reading (series: notes to myself)
I have not read enough. I said this with a sense of inevitable guilt. It’s not merely for lack of time, although that has played a role. It is not only tiredness, now that I have too many other preoccupations and I look for distractions, not more reflections, at night. It is not just because of a sense of unease pleasure, in which one may not indulge without moderation, like drinking good red wine. It is mostly because of a persistent sense of apprehension. Reading is formatting one’s mind, and this is risky, almost dangerous. For a convincing book may kill a tender idea you were nourishing, implanting a new one that is not yours, like a smuggled species on a new island. An insightful book may create turbulent thoughts almost unpleasant, that keep your mind rocking day and night. An interesting book may trigger a chain reaction that will disrupt your malleable reasonings, not yet sedimented. New bits of semantics will pin-pong in the head, interfering with other essential reflections.