I have a friend who seems to be reading all the time. Her husband says that not only will she read if she gets up in the middle of the night and can’t fall back to sleep, but she will read while walking, stirring the milk, and brushing her teeth. Name a book and she will have read it. And there is not a genre that she doesn’t like. She loves the classics, reads a lot of contemporary fiction, and is currently fascinated by historical fiction.
A few days ago she told me that she had finally picked up Fifty Shades of Grey by E L James. I was shocked that this shy girl from college, who balked if someone mentioned sex or was even remotely suggestive during conversations, would read anything trashy. But she mentioned that, while it was not a well-written novel, it was a nice escape from reality that included a project at work that she just didn’t want to be a part of, and a nagging mother-in-law at home.
I was curious about the content so the next day I headed out to buy the book during lunch-break at work. At the bookstore, I was amazed by my own behavior. I bought Vogue (and a notebook I didn’t really need too) because there was a guy sitting behind the checkout counter and I didn’t want to walk up to him with a copy of Grey by E L James
(They were out of Fifty Shades of Grey so I decided to buy the book where the story is told from the male character’s perspective). And I visibly squirmed when the teller took too long to ring up my purchases. Why did he have to hold the book as he waited for me to hand over the money? I didn’t want the girl next to me see the book I was buying but she did and I think I saw her throw a wary glance my way.
The haunted house (Part 1)
Then it hit me. I was ashamed of my choice of read. I didn’t want anyone to judge me based on one book that I had wanted to read on a whim. I read all the ‘right’ books, from the classics to booker prize winning titles. Erotica wasn’t something you could find on my bookshelves. As I was leaving the store, I made sure the book was tucked safely in my handbag so that I wouldn’t bump into anyone with it on my hands or the book spine peeking out of the side compartment.
On my way back, my thoughts went back to a colleague who, a few years ago, had been reading Fifty Shades of Grey at work. Another colleague had stuck a note on her desk saying that the book she was reading was ‘not suitable for work’, and he had even gone around telling everyone that she seemed to enjoy racy reads. At that time, I had been livid. How could he judge her like that? And she was a reader. We all had seen her reading all kinds of books before Fifty Shades of Grey. Didn’t one have the rights to read whatever they wanted? I, for one, had been all for reading anything as long as you were reading.
But turns out, when it came for me to read erotic fiction, though I didn’t mind it, I didn’t want anyone to see it and judge me. I felt like a hypocrite. So much for standing up for that colleague when I couldn’t even stomach buying it! In hindsight, I now realize that I have always been judgmental about the books people were reading and tried to project my own reading habits a certain way. I’m guilty of burying my copy of Chetan Bhagat’s Half Girlfriend under a pile of papers on my work desk lest someone mock my choice. I have also put Pillars of the Earth by Ken Follett on the same desk for everyone to see, clearing away any paper that might hide the beautifully designed cover of that doorstopper of a book.
While reading the classics and Pulitzer prize winners will brand you as a serious and smart reader, reading romance, chick-lit, and, in particular, erotic fiction, won’t win you any brownie points in that department. And we all want to appear smart. But, in terms of reading, we all seem to draw our own lines in the sand, creating our own definition of the transgressive. It applies to our own inner limits, rather than what the rest of the world views it to be. And quite naturally, transgression is a relative thing.
What appears transgressive to one person might be an inconsequential thing for another. For instance, there is a friend who thinks Lolita by Vladimir Nabokov is the greatest work in literature while another seems to take the same book as the blueprint for Fifty Shades of Grey. Reading is a personal choice and one you wouldn’t want to be judged for anymore than you would for wearing your favorite faded sweatshirt with frayed sleeves at home on a gloomy day.
I have a friend who says he’s never read fewer than 50 books per year in the last couple of years – that’s at least one book per week. The catch is he only reads thrillers and spy novels. Then there’s the friend who doesn’t read fiction at all. She will only read non-fiction works and says she reads one book every month or two. Another colleague confessed to reading only the popular titles like The Alchemist, The Kite Runner, and The Fault in Our Stars. His sister, he says, doesn’t read much but loves Chetan Bhagat and Ravinder Singh.
What we would do well to remember is the fact that we all read for different purposes – for knowledge, entertainment, and pure escapism. Also people have different tastes. It’s time to set aside shame, refrain from judging others, and opening ourselves to the myriad shades of the human palette. Neil Gaiman said, “Read. Read anything. Read the things they say are good for you, and the things they claim are junk. You’ll find what you need to find. Just read.” I think it’s about time I started living by that mantra.
The writer likes to read, eat, and give opinions not advice. She can be contacted at ip_bista@hotmail.com
