“One out of five teenagers in France never opens a book,” I heard the TV say, as I tidied my apartment. These numbers struck me as really bad – I did a little research. According to the French National Book Centre, the TV was correct. This brought to mind a recent conversation with a friend regarding her Instagram review of 2023. The list of her accomplishments included the boast: “Read a book”. “One book a year! The bar has truly gotten low,” I replied to her story, jokingly. “The funny thing is,” she said, “I am actually lucky to tick this one off the list – I barely managed to finish the book before the year’s end.”
I mentally listed the books I read last year and the number turned out to be equally unimpressive. How did it ever come to this? When did books cease to be an essential part of my life? As a child, I used to get into trouble for my obsession with reading. Shortsighted from birth, I wasn’t allowed to read longer than a certain number of hours a day, and definitely not in poorly-lit spaces.
But they couldn’t stop me. I remember reading in bed well past my bedtime, illuminated by the feeble ray of light I managed to secure by slightly cracking open the bedroom door. Grabbing a book from my bedside table and burying my nose in it first thing in the morning used to be like a reflex action. The fun times that ensued with each new Harry Potter book release deserve a special mention. Since I refused to let go of the book (I read literally everywhere, bathroom included), my parents started to hide it. This gave my short sighted eyes a break long enough to figure out the hiding spot.
But somewhere along the way, books stopped being a necessity and turned into an occasional, conscious choice of recreation. Tempted by myriad other options, we are cursed to repeatedly bypass the unparalleled joy of getting sucked into literary worlds.
Thankfully, the last bastions still standing, modern-day book lovers (and readers) are there to help us put things in perspective. A couple of weeks ago, while chatting to the staff of a travel essentials store at Charles de Gaulle airport, one of the vendors, well into his 50s, inquired how many of Dostoevsky’s novels I had read, noting my Russian origins. The question was well-targeted, as Fyodor Mikhailovich happens to be one of my favourite authors.
“Finally!” he said excitedly. “Someone I can discuss Brothers Karamazov with!” It turns out he had tried to popularise the book among his colleagues, even forcing a fellow salesman to borrow his personal copy – to no avail. A few weeks later, when the book had been returned to its owner, he attempted to quiz the said salesman on the subject of who murdered Fyodor Karamazov. The very vague answer, “I don’t really remember”, revealed to the Dostoevsky fan the sad reality: no matter how convincing you are at making the case for an 800-page book, it remains a temptation that a surprisingly large number of people manage to resist.
Meanwhile, someone else in the shop was showcasing some books to a client, who looked wistfully at the glossy pages, thanked the lady and left. “He can’t afford it,” she sighed. “For years he’s been living here at the airport. Every once in a while, he saves enough donations from passengers and buys a book about Egypt – that’s where he comes from. Last year I even gave him one for Christmas.”
Ever since this conversation, I can’t stop thinking about this man, spending his meagre funds on something he clearly holds in the highest esteem – books. As I sit here in the warmth of my home, leisurely contemplating my bookshelf, deciding whether I should read something tonight or just watch some Netflix, I think of him counting his change and choosing between his dinner and the ability to open the cover of a new volume.
My plans for tonight are all set: I will pick up a book.
