Then and now

I’ve written a few book reviews for World of Interiors over the last year (a joy). It’s not something I’ve done for at least a decade but it came back instantly. I used to think the rate at which I was reviewing in my first job (Editorial Assistant, the Assistant Editor of the now defunct Good Book Guide) spoiled my enjoyment of wallowing in a book. I was getting through hundreds a month (a fair portion being non-fiction, I’m not super human). I think it might be true. Or maybe I’m just not the bibliophile I feel I should be. Shamefully, I can go months without reading fiction, which shocks me. In fact, I can’t believe I’ve just confessed to such a cultural failing.

I still love books though. I still buy them regularly and feel delighted when they arrive. But I largely skim and flick through. When I was young, I remember my father was always very proud of his speed-reading skills and I thought he was some sort of heathen for not immersing himself in the language. And now, of course, we all have the attention spans of vapid gnats (yes, some are even more challenged than others) so devoting time to such a solitary and time-consuming past time seems odd. Not like staring at the screen all day (guilty as charged).