My father once told me some advice he’d been given by his teachers at boarding school in mid-century rural France. The school had an enormous library of old books and the boys were encouraged to read at least two hours a day. “The advice,” he said, “was that if after the first 50 pages of a book you don’t get hooked, you’re allowed to stop reading and try again later when you feel ready for it.”
My father credits this advice with igniting his lifelong love of literature. Because he spent his entire working life as a manual labourer, books for him have always belonged to a private, mostly domestic and almost sacred realm. I’ve never seen anyone read the way my father reads. He is the most compulsive and prolific reader I know.
I don’t think my father intended to hand the 50-page guideline down to me. He’s not the sort to give advice and I’m not the sort to invite it. But I find it’s the advice that’s delivered obliquely that is most likely to be listened to.
I like this rule of thumb, for the generosity and respect it extends to a book’s author. A reader, it suggests, needs a little patience to adapt to a book’s particular tone, rhythm and voice. But at the same time, this advice gives a person permission to stop reading. Nobody, it implies, need force themselves to slog through a book they’re not connecting to.
I particularly like the gentle suggestion to return to a book “when you feel ready for it”. It’s a recognition that reading is inherently relational and that this relationship is not static. A couple of Christmases ago my father gave me a hardcover, annotated copy of Mrs Dalloway, but try as I might I can’t penetrate it. I feel a slight shame at this, but I try to heed his advice and remember I just need to give it time.
Recently, the advice has meant I’ve stuck with and come to devour Jon Fosse’s single-sentence The Other Name; Marie Darrieussecq’s fragmented The Baby; and a string of John Banville novels, in his famously dense and lavish prose.
Even when my initial instincts are correct and by page 50 I’m more than ready to stop reading, still the exercise feels worth doing. A bit like how I have strong legs on account of cycling, but swimming will use different muscles and I’m surprised every time at how my legs will hurt in new places. On both accounts, it’s a satisfying kind of hurt.
I like to think my father’s readerly advice can be applied to life more generally, and to other people, too. Give things a fair chance; don’t judge too hastily. It’s helped me when travelling, when confronted with underwhelming landscapes, unanticipated delays and awkward social situations. Resisting the urge to escape, or to complain, or to dismiss, has meant I’ve come to appreciate the particular charm of a wide variety of places and personalities.
And the flipside of my father’s advice is helpful too: when something doesn’t feel right, don’t be afraid to relinquish it, at least for the time being. For me, this has meant listening carefully to my instincts and not feeling pressure to enjoy every location, nor to force a connection with someone I know in my heart I don’t entirely trust.
