“But I don’t want comfort. I want God, I want poetry, I want real danger, I want freedom, I want goodness, I want sin.”
Limitless or not, the power of the reader cannot be inherited; it must be learned. Even though we come into the world as creatures intent on seeking meaning in everything, in reading meanings in gestures, sounds, colors, and shapes, the deciphering of society’s common code of communication is a skill that must be acquired. Vocabulary and syntax, levels of meaning, summary and comparison of texts, all these are techniques that must be taught to those who enter society’s commonwealth in order to grant them the full power of reading. And yet the last step in the process must be learned all alone: discovering in a book the record of one’s own experience.
Rarely, however, is the acquisition of this power encouraged. From the elite schools of scribes in Mesopotamia to the monasteries and universities of the Middle Ages, and later, with the wider distribution of texts after Gutenberg and in the age of the Web, reading at its fullest has always been the privilege of a few. True, in our time, most people in the world are superficially literate, able to read an ad and sign their name on a contract, but that alone does not make them readers. Reading is the ability to enter a text and explore it to one’s fullest individual capacities, repossessing it in the act of reinvention. But a myriad of obstacles…are placed in the way of its accomplishment. Precisely because of the power that reading grants the reader, the various political, economic, and religious systems that govern us fear such imaginative freedom. Reading at its best may lead to reflection and questioning, and reflection and questioning may lead to objection and change. That, in any society, is a dangerous enterprise.
ALBERTO MANGUEL, from “The End of Reading,” A Reader on Reading. New Haven, CONN : Yale UP, 2010. 289.
Yes, I love Alberto Manguel.
Photo: 8:36pm: Cozied up with a book, next to a sleeping husband.
*Northrop Frye

What is it like being a writer? I would say it is like being free.
I know that some writers aren’t free, they are professionally employed, which is quite a different thing.
Professionally, they are probably better writers in the conventional sense of “better.” They have an ear to the ground of best-seller demands: they please their publishers and presumably their public as well.
But they are not free and so they are not what I regard a true writer as being.
To be free is to have achieved your life.
It means any number of freedoms.
It means the freedom to stop when you please, to go where and when you please, it means to be voyager here and there, one who flees many hotels, sad or happy, without obstruction and without much regret.
It means the freedom of being. And someone has wisely observed, if you can’t be yourself, what’s the point of being anything at all?
TENNESSEE WILLIAMS, Memoirs. with an introduction by John Waters ; New York : New Directions, 2006.
Photo: Tennessee Williams