Readers

Dear Readers:

I’m lucky to have you. Every time I post something and people read it, I feel it—my luck. Today I’m excited to share an essay called “Readers,” by my dad, Max Schott, from his book “Keeping Warm.”

Maybe you’re thinking, “hey, what’s this now, I signed up to read Anna Schott,” and you’d be right. But Max is elbowing me out, and we’re just gonna have to deal.

Love,

Anna

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Readers

by Max Schott

It’s hard to tell at a glance who are the real readers, or maybe I should say the ideal readers, the ones who just read to be reading-because they like it. That good looking boy over there is reading. In fact he has three books, all open, and is writing too. But I’d guess he probably has ulterior motives, and not very interesting ones-an exam to pass, a paper to write.

But that girl at the table over by the window, she has a book in her hand, and no other paraphernalia-a good sign, and she seems absorbed. When she was little, I’ll bet her relatives would say, “She’s a reader. Always has a book in her hand.” It starts early. And later on, at twelve, fourteen, sixteen, she remained just as book hungry, if she really is a reader. She not only out-read her teachers (which might not be saying much), but out-read her fellow students too. Omnivorous, she read any and everything, read like the wind blows-in every direction. As a result, maybe she didn’t do too well in school. And then, to continue the story, maybe people even began to tell her that reading like that, for no purpose, would never get her anywhere. And she, looking sulky, would say nothing, but just go on reading. I like to think of her as being intractable. But on the other hand, it’s true, they were right, it won’t get you anywhere; it may even make you wonder if there’s anywhere to get. Anyhow, look how intent she is, I hope she’ll stay that way, all her life. But the fact that it’s even necessary to hope, casts a shadow of a doubt. Reading-a reader’s reading-is either a love affair or nothing. And love affairs don’t always last. Especially not if something better comes along. I remember a threesome-two brothers and the wife of one of them. The ranch they lived on was 70 miles from a paved road, and their own road was impassable when it was wet. From late fall till early spring they were ranch bound. So to pass the evenings they kept on hand a big pile of pulp magazines, mostly True West and Ranch Romances, and these they read-for their own pleasure and no other reason-night after night, winter after winter. Readers, surely! Then around 1955 a television broadcasting station came to the nearest fair sized town. You know the rest of the story. When choices proliferate, new tastes emerge, and the old ones drop away or alter. They bought a TV set, stuck an antenna up on the house roof, started up the generator, plugged the thing in, and were instant and happy converts. One night they were punished, though, for their apostasy. It was during a thunderstorm. The three of them had gathered around the new shrine, pleased to be getting, in such weather, a fair kind of a picture on the screen, when a burst of lightning and thunder (simultaneous-it was right on them) rattled the house, and afterward an odd smell-too bitter for ozone-filled the room. The innards of the TV had melted. So it was back to the magazines for the rest of the winter. But it wasn’t the same anymore, as they were quick enough to admit. I admit, I have a bias in favor of reading. But it’s just a bias. Why be fussy? Avoid books if you prefer to, and if you happen to get stuck with one, enjoy it any way you can. I had a student, for example, who got pleasure out of setting one of his assigned texts (Gertrude Stein’s autobiography) on fire, and then got pleasure again out of telling the class about it. His only remaining complaint was that it was hard to get it to burn. And at the Victoria Street Theater one night, a whole audience, including myself, enjoyed a book together, without even dreaming of reading it. These were nearly all young, healthy, lively looking people-high spirited too-there to watch a ski movie. Before the movie started, there was a drawing for some door prizes. A young man jumped up on the stage, drew a name out of a hat. “The first winner is... (a girl’s name).” “Hooray,” people shouted, nearly the whole audience, and clapped. “And the prize is ...a book!” He held it up, a nice little thin book. Boos, hisses, catcalls. You couldn’t even hear the title.

It was fun. But if you’re reading this, you probably weren’t there.

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Max Schott's stories and essays have been widely published in magazines; his work has been anthologized in Best American Short Stories, The Norton Anthology of Short Fiction, and The Pushcart Prize.