I'm ready to start the last book from the pile I bought in June for summer reading, Iceland's Bell, by Halldor Laxness. Articles about reading fiction frequently talk about the way that readers engage with the world in rich, imaginative ways. I've not read a clear explanation about how, but looking back on this summer and my reading gives me a small bit of insight. When we went to Toronto, I woke up every morning and sat in the Starbucks in the hotel lobby reading The Savage Detectives, by Robert Bolano. On Owen's college visit trip, after he and Suzi went to bed, I worked to struggle forward through Dhalgren, by Samuel Delaney. Waking up in Frankfort before everyone else, I went down to the lake for a swim. At night, I put myself to bed reading The Stockholm Octavo, by Karen Engelmann. Up at our campsite on Au Train Lake, I let Laith fall asleep while I read Epitaph of a Small Winner, by Machado de Assis. The week at home between trips when I ran family members to doctor appointments, I sat in waiting rooms reading The Great Leader, by Jim Harrison. From what I've read about brain research, memory depends on association. Reading creates associations. The experiences I've had with family and friends on -- good times and hard -- are connected to, supported by, and made more vibrant in contrast and conjunction with the lives lived through the books I've read. To be able to associate the times in my life with books helps me remember both better, and to think about both more clearly.
So maybe this is one more reason why reading matters. That, and books are good.
So maybe this is one more reason why reading matters. That, and books are good.