I have a confession to make: I read too fast.
I don’t mean that in a sideways self-congratulatory I’m a super speed-reader neener neener to you slowpokes still thumbing through your December 2004 issues of The New Yorker way, either. I do read quickly, but not conspicuously so; I can’t cool myself on hot summer days with the wind produced by my fleet page flipping, or anything. When I say that I read too fast, what I mean is that I (often) read too briskly for my own pleasure. My eyes scan the lines of books and newspapers overly quickly, and I occasionally even skip whole words or phrases as long as doing so doesn’t actively interfere with my understanding of the particular sentence or passage I’m looking at (I have very little patience for lengthy descriptions, despite the fact that I’m not immune to writing them myself). In fact, I’m an incredibly efficient reader, in one sense, because I am very good at picking out the information I’m looking for. In another sense I am a fantastically bad reader, because I don’t allow myself the time I need to really commit to a deep and full reading that reveals the richness of a text. Too, my memory for the details (and even the broad strokes) of what I’ve read is generally rather poor. I often feel like I’m reading too fast, as well; reading changes then, turning from an act of enjoyment into a stressful, frustrating experience in which I can feel my brain lurching ahead of the words like a pathetically lame horse trying to gallop.
I’m not sure exactly when this habit began—and it is a habit, not an irresistible mode of being. I don’t read this way when I am editing, when I’m doing a close reading for the sake of analysis, when I am lucky enough to feel incredibly relaxed and focused, or when a writer’s style is so spare and precise that I cannot help but follow slowly and carefully the trail of words he or she leaves. I’ve always been a fast reader, but when I was younger I used to luxuriate in books. I would linger over each sentence because to finish a book was to be forced to exit the impenetrable personal space I managed to create around myself while I read, and meant that I’d have to venture back out into a world I wasn’t all that interested in—at least for as long as it took to find another book. In college I read huge amounts of material, but I never felt rushed about it… probably because I didn’t at all mind being lazy then, whereas now it tends to feel like a sin.
I think this freaky speed has something to do with having too much to do and always feeling pressed for time, with being too bent on getting things done, with reading being my business now instead of my escape. These days it’s the sense of completion I seem to crave; frequently when my fingers tell me that I am near the final pages of a book I actually speed up in an attempt to get there sooner, as if I’m a long-distance runner approaching her finish-line. I push myself, even though it’s uncomfortable and I don’t really want to do it. I’ve tried to be better at slowing down and savoring reading, but the success I have is highly variable, and depends on things like how many items currently appear on my mental to-do list, how much coffee I’ve just drunk, or how many words are left in the article I’m writing. I’m embarrassed to tell you this, given how important reading is in my life. I feel like I need an AA equivalent, some room full of sympathetic strangers willing to accept me for who I am and offer me helpful tips when I stand up and say, “My name is Meera, and I’m a rushing reader.”
What do you say? Will someone be my sponsor? Just understand that I might need to call you up at 2 a.m. sometimes and throw things against the wall while raging about not being able to stop myself from finishing The Brothers Karamazov.
