Reading is fun-damental

I suppose it is natural to encourage other people to do things we enjoy ourselves. It’s part of our nature as social animals.
If I have a redeeming quality, as unlikely as that may seem, it is that I have always encouraged people, especially young people, to read. Many times throughout my, shall we say singular existence, reading has been the salvation of my sanity, such as that is. I prefer curling up with a good book to most other activities.
When I find an author I like, I tend to seek out everything he or she has written and devour it as quickly as possible. Some might call this obsessive/compulsive behavior, and I’d be in no position to disagree.
When I first encountered the works of British author J.R.R. Tolkien, back in the dark ages when I was a college freshman, I tore through his impressive body of written works like a wild fire going through dry grass. To this day, when I can’t find anything new to interest me, I’ll go back and re-read The Hobbit or The Lord of the Rings trilogy or one of his many volumes of poetry.
Having a sense of humor that can best be described as unusual, I also have a real admiration for the works of Douglas Adams. I was genuinely saddened when I heard recently that he had succumbed to heart disease. If you haven’t read The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy, The Restaurant at the End of the Universe, or any of his other quixotic science fiction books, you might give one of them a try. A little hint, though: If you aren’t laughing until it hurts by the time you’re four pages into the book, put it down and go back to Field & Stream. Adams just ain’t your kind of writer.
Within the past month, I have polished off three books by Mississippi-born author Thomas Harris, best known for The Silence of the Lambs and Hannibal. There is a third book, The Red Dragon, which includes the character of Hannibal Lecter, the brilliant-psychiatrist-turned-serial-killer.
I can’t say that Harris’ subject matter is my cup of tea (he seems fascinated with insane violence), but of all the contemporary writers of fiction I’ve read, the charming way he uses language is by far the most appealing. After all, not many writers can describe a mindlessly brutal murder in some detail and still make the reader feel not so much like he has witnessed a horrifying crime, but rather like he has intruded upon an intimate moment between two people.
Not every literary selection I make is a winner, however. I’ve read some really dreadful books in my time. My problem is that I can’t just put a book down when it turns out to be a stinker. I keep hoping that all the work and emotion the author put into it will produce something worthwhile somewhere. Unfortunately, that isn’t always the case.
Currently, I’m reading an autobiography entitled Cybill Disobedience by Cybill Shepherd. As I write this, I’m about halfway through this epic and, so far, it reeks.
I bought the book because Ms Shepherd and I are contemporaries. She also was born in Memphis, in the same year I was. As it turns out, we knew many of the same people, although we never met. Her book mentions many events and places quite familiar to me. She even got to know legendary blues musician Furry Lewis in much the same way I did.
There are other similarities, mostly involving a dissolute lifestyle and a blatant disregard for the feelings of other people. But there’s no need to bring that up unless I decide to write my own autobiography. And I can’t imagine who’d want to read it.
To cut to the chase, no matter what Ms Shepherd’s talents as an actress or singer may be, as a writer she’d make a first class pipe-fitter.