Fresh grated Locatelli Pecorino Romano - better then Parmesan.

by Hugh Gilmore

Every December I review my reading list for the year, partly as self-congratulation for being such a good boy and partly to chastise myself for my lazy tastes. The “good boy” part of my reading life is that I always aim to read 100 books that year.

“Lazy tastes” refers to the fact that if my conscience ever eroded completely (it’s currently in a state of slow rot), I would probably read nothing but adrenalin-pump books.

This year, however, there’s been a reversal of those two qualities. First I have read only 75 books so far, a genuine falling-off. I guess I’ll attribute this disgrace to the new TV I bought mid-year. My “smart TV” has made me dumb, I think. It allows me to click it on and immediately choose a Netflix movie. My wife and I have been watching a movie nearly every evening – about six per week.

I distinguish between documentary movies and “story” movies. Most docs allow me to learn some things I never knew before, so they’re not a waste. And the best of them are probably as good for my brain as reading a book on the same subject would have been. But story films are always a big gamble. Most of them are just downright silly, no matter how important the issues they grapple with.

I’d say my happiness rate with somewhat recent story films is about one out of twenty – beginning with “Good Will Hunting,” for example, and running on up “Mr. Turner” (two of the most boring, dishonest shadow plays I’ve seen this year). A story movie with false human emotions is worse than a bad novel because movies are so vivid – their images, lighting, color, costumes, beautiful people, manipulative musical soundtracks, the works – that their characters seem like real people in real situations. But that’s wrong; they tell fairy tales. Often quite bloody ones. The stuff of fantasy. And a waste of time.

I belabor this issue because I fell into the Netflix trap this year and consequently my reading numbers diminished. This was not because Netflix ate up the time allotted for reading, but because most movies enervate me. Sort of: There’s my story for the day, I haven’t the mental energy for another. So I read a short magazine article.

I know, I know: With a reading list it’s quality, not quantity that counts, but I don’t agree.

Taken that quality/quantity argument to its extreme one might say that one really good book would be better for me than a bunch of so-so ones. But, first, how do I know what’s a really good book until I’ve read it? One must go through a lot to find the ones that speak to his or her own heart and mind. Second, the very act of having one’s brain translate printed words into images and concepts is good exercise.

Reading is an acquired skill. It’s comparable to working out at a mental gym. Our brains need to be constantly worked to stay fit. Fall out of practice and the thought of reading anything longer than a TV-Guide will seem too hard a task. Conversely, if you read a lot, the prospect of reading a 300-page book seems easy.

The more you read, the better you get at it. People would jump at the chance to do a workout with one of the world’s best athletes. The same is offered them when they sit down with a book: a chance for a one-on-one session with one of the world’s best thinkers/story-tellers/philosophers.

As for my reading list for the year: Usually my year-end review reveals that I read about 10 to 20 “good” books and a whole bunch of “lunk” books – for example: surviving at sea after a boat sinks, crawling back to civilization after being eaten by a wild boar, eating 10,000 slugs for a bet, and/or arm-wrestling, winner-take-all at a cannibal lumberjack convention. That sort of thing.

This year I ran into what I call the “Locatelli” wall. I’ll explain: I was born and raised to shake Borden’s grated Parmesan onto my spaghetti. I liked that stuff. No meal was complete without it. Then one night a friend introduced me to the wildly primitive (to an Irish guy) practice of grating fresh Locatelli Pecorino Romano cheese onto my “pasta” (another strange new term to me). It tasted so good I’ve never been able to go back to shake-from-the-can cheese. Once I’d tasted the good stuff, life at the table was never the same.

Similarly, this year I had the good fortune to read some excellent, well-written, thought-provoking books early in the year, and I’ve been left with a unquenchable hunger for more books of that kind ever since. There are very few lunk books on my list this year. The thought of reading a “merely entertaining” book no longer attracts me. I want deep books, philosophical books, truthful books and everything else seems like a waste of time and life.

As usual in my life, this change came about because of a woman. Well, eh, actually: several women. I’ll name names soon. (Yes, my wife knows.)

Hugh Gilmore’s “The Enemies of Reading” will begin its 10th year this January. He is the author of several books that pay tribute to the world of old and rare books. His “Scenes from a Bookshop” is based on true stories from when he ran his old bookshop on Chestnut Hill Avenue.