George Saunders, a writer I admire (full disclosure: I am a paid subscriber to his online Story Club), recently posted a prepublication chapter from this forthcoming book of essays, in which writing teacher Reed describes the experience of teaching Saunders’s eccentric, imaginative novel Lincoln in the Bardo with her students at the University of Pittsburgh. Reed does a brave thing: she does not read and analyze the book beforehand: she reads it, chapter by chapter, from scratch, alongside her students. Together, they all try to figure out what this crazy book is about. The creativity, perseverance, openness, and sheer fun of the adventure is disarming and entertaining. I love books about books, about readers and reading, and this one looked promising; NetGalley kindly obliged me with an advance copy.
It quickly became apparent that the title is a misnomer: it should be titled “Why I Read.” Not that we don’t have things in common, and not that her various explications of why people spend hours absorbing printed text aren’t valid (“Because We Had To,” “Because I Wanted a Free Pizza,” “To Feel Less Alone,” “To Feel Superior,” “For Comfort”). But Shannon Reed is the focus in chapter after chapter: her focus is her reading, her choices, her experiences. This is not “On Bookworms,” but “On A Bookworm.” So readers should expect an idiosyncratic, personal memoir of her own reading habits and preferences. That said, I found her sections on her teaching and her students to be the most engaging – the comradely exploration of Saunders, the unexpected joy her tenth-grade girls found in Jane Eyre, how her not-very-diverse classroom coped with an essay about a Black man’s experience of being perceived as a threat. One of the more successful personal pieces worked through how Atul Gawande’s sensitive and powerful book Being Mortal affected her in the aftermath of her father’s death – and was one of the few written with a more serious, heartfelt, and honest emotional tone.
Because – and your mileage may and almost certainly will vary – Reed is considered (and considers herself, and tells us this several times) a humor writer. She clearly works very hard at it. And sometimes when you work that hard at it, it’s not funny. It’s labored and heavy-handed. I found the numerous “footnotes” which were basically cute or smart-alecky asides tedious. Not sure if they were intended to be a satire on scholarship, but they weren’t particularly sharp – more like what a snarky teenager would mutter in the back row of a boring class, thinking how clever she is. Sometimes my impatience was just a matter of taste: she boasts on never having read a book I love, and champions a series I gagged on (yes, Anne of Green Gables…). One of my measures of a book about books is whether it gives me a title or two that I need to go find and soon. This one, I’m afraid, did not.
People who read, who love to read, who couldn’t live without reading, will certainly find plenty of head nods, agreement, and things to appreciate in Reed’s equal devotion to the power and joy of books. She may be a very good teacher, who respects and enjoys her students and sharing their journeys through stories and characters and words. Had her focus stayed more on things other than Shannon Reed’s eccentricities (a terror of sea creatures?) and proclivities (a very long wander through the writing of cookbooks) and inclination toward smart remarks, this might have been a much more affecting and absorbing book than it is.
And I would like to tell her that if Gawande touched her, she needs to read Middlemarch (well, except for Will Ladislaw, who really is irritating).