Skip to main content

Netflix Can Wait

The novelist Ben Dolnick had a great piece in the NYT this weekend. It's about binge-reading. It's in favor of long gulps of reading. Don't read in short spurts, says Dolnick. Read for an hour at a time.

Why? You get absorbed in the book. You notice details within subplots that you wouldn't otherwise notice. The author's voice seems to meld with your voice. There's a sense of momentum--and the reading becomes more and more entertaining--and then you can't stop.

What I very much like is that Dolnick isn't wagging a finger. He isn't saying, "Read because it will make you smarter, or because you'll grow a better vocabulary." He's saying: "Reading should be fun, and the way to make it fun is to really commit to it--with zeal--for hours on end."

I had this same epiphany a few months ago when reading an interview with the thriller writer Michael Connelly. He said, "Reading is about momentum [that word again]. When I choose a book, I lock myself in a silent room with that book, and I get sucked in."

I wonder if Dolnick and Connelly have ever spoken.

Another plus of the Dolnick piece is that it has Dolnick's own charming prose, e.g. "One night a few months ago, the power went out and, unable to engage in my customary internet fugue, I lit a candle and picked up a thriller by Ruth Rendell." That voice: "engage in my customary internet fugue"--! I've read three of four Dolnick novels--I heard the fourth was a slight drop-off--and I can assure you that same quiet humor pops up frequently in his fiction (or at least his early fiction).

Lastly, the link, because Dolnick makes his own argument better than I can. Enjoy! https://www.nytimes.com/2019/05/04/opinion/sunday/why-you-should-start-binge-reading-right-now.html?login=email&auth=login-email

P.S. A Dolnick novel tends to be a Bildungsroman: A middle-class American guy making big mistakes in the company of compelling, plausible characters. Straight-forward, insightful, meat-and-potatoes storytelling. My kind of book.

Comments

Popular posts from this blog

How to Host a Baby

-You have assumed responsibility for a mewling, puking ball of life, a yellow-lab pup. He will spit his half-digested kibble all over your shoes, all over your hard-cover edition of Jennifer Haigh's novel  Faith . He will eat your tables, your chairs, your "I {Heart] Montessori" magnet, placed too low on the fridge. When you try to watch Bette Davis in  Hush Hush Sweet Charlotte , on your TV, your dog will bark through the murder-prologue, for no apparent reason. He will whimper through Lena Dunham's  Girls , such that you have to rewind several times to catch every nuance of Andrew Rannells's ad-libbing--and, still, you'll have a nagging suspicion you've missed something. Your dog will poop on the kitchen floor, in the hallway, between the tiny bars of his crate. He'll announce his wakefulness at 5 AM, 2 AM, or while you and another human are mid-coitus. All this, and you get outside, and it's: "Don't let him pee on my tulips!" When...

Raymond Carver: "What's in Alaska?"

Outside, Mary held Jack's arm and walked with her head down. They moved slowly on the sidewalk. He listened to the scuffing sounds her shoes made. He heard the sharp and separate sound of a dog barking and above that a murmuring of very distant traffic.  She raised her head. "When we get home, Jack, I want to be fucked, talked to, diverted. Divert me, Jack. I need to be diverted tonight." She tightened her hold on his arm. He could feel the dampness in that shoe. He unlocked the door and flipped the light. "Come to bed," she said. "I'm coming," he said. He went to the kitchen and drank two glasses of water. He turned off the living-room light and felt his way along the wall into the bedroom. "Jack!" she yelled. "Jack!" "Jesus Christ, it's me!" he said. "I'm trying to get the light on." He found the lamp, and she sat up in bed. Her eyes were bright. He pulled the stem on the alarm and b...

My Favorite Pop Song

  One thing I admire about Prince is his weirdly pretentious verses: Dream, if you can, a courtyard-- An ocean of violets in bloom. Also: Touch, if you will, my stomach. Feel how it trembles inside. No one else writes like this. Did people try to shoot down these choices? Did a producer say, "We'd like to rethink this one... Touch, if you will, my stomach...."  I can't help but wonder. But it's the chorus that makes this a classic. It's direct and universal--and it ends with that bizarre flourish, the allusion to "the crying doves." (Prince's song was number one in America for quite a while; it defeated Bruce Springsteen's "Dancing in the Dark.") How can you just leave me standing-- Alone in a world that's so cold? Maybe I'm just too demanding. Maybe I'm just like my father--too bold. Maybe you're just like my mother; She's never satisfied. Why do we scream at each other? This is what it sounds like when doves cr...