I had been studying a lot, reading a lot (it was the winter, and little could be done in the yard), and I was getting obsessive about a bunch of books people had been recommending. Suddenly it was too much: my mind felt crowded, and this question popped out of my mind. Why do I read? Why do people read? (I’m talking about the reading we do beyond the required reading at work and the optional reading for entertainment. Call it “Search Reading;” many people are not infected with the virus.)
I started a project in the shop, and spaced out in the evenings for several days.
Most books are like footsteps, the result of someone’s search for something. For years (I know it was kind of infantile), I expected more: final conclusions. If the author was persuasive enough, I’d feel satisfied, convinced I’d had a brush with The Truth. If not, I might abandon the book before finishing it, argue with it, critique it if someone asked me what I thought about it, soon forget it.
If I became captured by this quest, questions might creep in. I might read another book, by an equally persuasive writer, and if it was well‑crafted and arrived at different conclusions, I’d be disappointed. “What’s the truth?” I’d ask, and feel a little worried.
What’s up with this? “No one ever nails down the truth about anything” one little voice inside me would whine. Another voice (sort of sounds like a parent) might say, “Settle down, son; you’re taking everything much too seriously.”
When my obsessiveness is a little subdued, the answer dawns on me: to take a single step in my process. Nothing more. Anything else is really kind of wacky. My unrealistic expectation from a book was like expecting breakfast to be all the food I'd need for the rest of the week.
A man who does not read good books has no advantage over a man who cannot read.
Mark Twain
The Innocents Abroad
You can only find truth with logic when you have already found it without logic.
G. K. Chesterton
The Autobiography of G.K. Chesterton