The Joy of Reading
 It
has become the prevailing opinion that people are
not reading books with the same zeal, energy and
enthusiasm as in bygone years. They could be
right, although I cannot understand how people can
live a rich, wise and fruitful life without
reading works of the imagination. My own life
would be bereft without my dedication to reading.
Books have been my life, both as a writer and a
reader. I am well aware that younger generations
seemed to have eschewed reading, surrendering
instead to the lure of other distractions, of
which there are many. I'm not sure this is true
and I do not explore statistical analysis to prove
the point.
I can only judge the joy of reading by my own
experience. Nor can I pinpoint how reading became
my passion. Perhaps it was because my mother was a
passionate reader of popular novels. Between her
domestic chores, she would tuck herself away on a
living room easy chair and read those novels which
she got from the lending libraries that were a
staple of life in those days, where for pennies a
day you could read books borrowed from a store in
the neighborhood without going to the public
library which was a longer distance from our
modest Brooklyn apartment.
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