On Reading Aloud

My first major essay. As such, it's imperfect, but still worth reading if you don't mind unabashed sentimentalism.

The subject of the essay, in which I was to write about a "literary experience" was originally going to be the philosophical and psychological impact of my then-recent reading of Atlas Shrugged by Ayn Rand, who champions in her book a philosophy that I am at once enamored and put off by. In the end, however, I settled on something that didn't make my brain hurt. I'm kind of glad I did- how I could've written two-to-three pages on a subject on which I had no decisive opinions and feelings at the time is a matter for which I'm glad I had no need of an answer.


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On Reading Aloud


“As we were left to look about us while Mr. Spenlow was fetched, I availed myself of the opportunity.”

It’s well past midnight. I’m lying in bed in a relaxed position with my eyes half-closed. A few feet away, sitting on the spare bed in a pool of light from a lone reading lamp, sits my father, reading a copy of Charles Dickens’ David Copperfield.

“The furniture of the room was old-fashioned and dusty; and the green baize on the top of the writing-table-“

“What’s a baize?” I open my eyes and sit up a little in bed.

“I don’t know.” he says. “Want to look it up?”

I’m already reaching for the ancient Webster’s dictionary that rests, as a matter of necessity, on the floor near my bed. It’s our only weapon against the confusion and uncertainty wrought by Dickens’ use of now-obscure or defunct words and phrases, and it’s constantly on call.

“Let’s see…” I flick through the pages. “B-A-I, B-A-I, B-A-I… Ah!” I squint down at the minuscule writing, tracing the line with my finger. “‘A coarse woolen or cotton fabric napped to imitate felt.’” I set it down. “So it’s basically imitation felt.”

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I’m not entirely sure when or how our tradition of reading to each-other at night came into existence; it feels like we’ve never been without it. I remember quite clearly a time when, having finished an exchange of a similar sort, he would have walked over to my bed and rolled me up in my covers, “like a burrito!” as I requested. I can’t have been older than eight.

In many ways, our reading habits over time have been shaped by our experiences in the rest of our lives, to the point where I often remember things most clearly when I refer to the books we were reading at the time. I well recall my frustrated attempts to impart the first Harry Potter novel upon a tired, overworked man for whom remaining awake required constant effort on his part and constant vigilance on mine (Ron clubbed the troll over the head so many times, it’s a wonder it didn’t die outright). I remember sitting on a swivel-chair, reading Jonathan Stroud’s The Amulet of Samarkand and The Golem’s Eye until my throat gave in while he worked steadily at his desk, taking in every word I read and every image on his computer in equal measure. And I remember those times when he was simply too busy to read at all- they were (and are, whenever they occur) accompanied by a disconnected sense of loss and discontentment I could neither place, nor rid myself of.

Then there are the times when his work has been more manageable, and he could spare time to come up to my room and read for hours on end. In this way we have drunk deeply of Dandelion Wine, borne Dickens’ Great Expectations, and periodically skipped over songs about elven maidens in The Lord of the Rings.

Nearly every ounce of my literary upbringing has been affected by our partnership in some way or other, and his choice of books has molded my growth as a human as much as a consumer of literature. Indeed, most of my current interests had their foundation in our nights of contemplation, derived from the books we’ve read together.

His shared tastes have affected mine, and mine, his; it’s a sharing of our thoughts and interests to the grandest degree, and we’re forever exploring new and different paths and ideas- expanding our horizons, so to speak- through the books and authors we share.

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The word is deciphered, the barrier destroyed; we move on. I settle back into bed, dropping the dictionary next to the Harry Potter book lying on the floor. Tomorrow I’ll read him another chapter or two of that, enjoying, as I do so, the challenge of giving each character a distinctive voice, from Harry’s sharp, pubescent tones to Hagrid’s deep, hearty growl. I’ll move through plot twists with such enthusiasm, you’d never guess I’d read it five times already. I’ll pause periodically; to make an observation, to comment, or merely to chuckle, and to give him time to do the same. And after a while, I’ll reluctantly bequeath my place in the pool of lamplight, settle down, and listen.

Reading, I’ve heard, is typically a silent and solitary exercise.
I won’t have a bit of it.