On the lintel of a vanished genteel Ottawa bookstore run by elderly sisters was once a sign that read ‘A book fitly chosen is a life-long friend.’ Countless readers can attest to the truth of this statement, yet the perception remains that we do not read enough. Some time ago, a major Canadian newspaper chain, justifiably concerned about the precipitous decline in the readership of print media in general, commissioned a survey to determine the reasons for this. Schools have been routinely berated for neglecting basic literacy skills, an apprehension fuelled by a dramatic increase in the percentage of their population who do not speak English as their first language. University professors regularly bemoan the lack of ‘reading readiness’ of their undergraduates, and industry often complains that too much of its workforce is functionally illiterate. Stung by such criticism in the United Kingdom, authorities there now encourage reading by supporting the work of such charities and programs as ‘Give A Book,’ ‘First Story’ and various prison reading groups. We currently lack such a range of incentives in Canada.
Insufficient reading occurs not only because many other less demanding diversions exist, but more importantly, because society misappropriates or undervalues two precious commodities essential for developing good reading habits: time and solitude. A generation ago, we were promised that today’s would be a ‘leisure society.’ A new university subject, ‘recreology,’ came into being to help us make good use of the extra leisure time we were promised we would have. And what has happened? The work week has lengthened, not shortened, and the concept of extra leisure time has been swept away by the same wrecking crews that demolished the good sisters’ bookstore years ago to make way for a parking lot, itself perhaps an apt metaphor for ‘progress.’ Since that time, too many other independent bookstores have gone the same way. While teenagers and pre-teens alike ‘tweet’ and ‘twitter’ to one another, the superficiality of which is revealed by these very names, their exhausted parents are more likely to collapse in front of the television, itself neither still nor quiet, which assails the passive viewer with fleeting images punctuated by loud, relentless, and often offensive commercial appeals, unrelenting reminders that in a consumer society, viewers are valuable only insofar as they are busy getting and spending. Private reading, essentially a solitary and reflective activity, is not a ‘social’ medium. In fact, in schools, where it ought to be highly valued, silent reading must seem downright anti-social by contrast with in-class ‘group work’ where chat all too often masquerades as learning and is the hallmark of the communitarian ethic that currently holds sway there.
However, all is not lost. Informal reading groups flourish, publishers remain in business, existing bookstores continue to prosper and libraries still function. Legions of films have been made from books. Blockbuster film franchises, such as those derived from Tolkien’s The Lord of the Rings trilogy and The Hobbit, and J.K. Rowling’s Harry Potter stories, have the capacity to send the curious back to the books that inspired the films. The musical of Les Miserables could do the same for Victor Hugo’s sprawling novel, and perhaps even Cats inspires those who enjoyed it to read the poetry of T.S. Eliot, whose words in Old Possum’s Book of Practical Cats suggested themselves as a vehicle for the composing talents of Andrew Lloyd Webber. Hollywood has long been notorious for plundering the rich hoard of English children’s fiction for its movies: Rudyard Kipling’s The Jungle Book and A.A. Milne’s Winnie-the-Pooh were adapted by Walt Disney, and Disney’s Mary Poppins is based on the novels of P.L. Travers. The film Saving Mr. Banks is a tribute to its author, just as Finding Neverland is a tribute to J.M. Barrie, the author of Peter Pan, and Miss Potter is yet another, to Beatrix Potter, who wrote Peter Rabbit. Imitation is the sincerest form of flattery. Even the Muppets ended their version of Dickens’ A Christmas Carol with earnest injunctions to go and ‘read the book.’
