Perhaps this is a bit too self-obsessive of us readers: to read about how other readers read. But this book does reward us in sharing our obsessions over reading, whether it is purely for escaping the humdrum of present moment, a leaping forward to different time and place, a plunge into companies of a different stripe, or simple to hear the different voices talking, laughing, joking, weeping, or consoling. We are comforted or enraged by authors and books, but reading is what we love, however our paths and modes are different: Alan Bennett from his lower-middle-brow of Leeds, Rita Ciresi from her house full of old newspapers and Reader's Digests, Clarice Lipsector from a bookshop manned by a young girl who tortured her, and many others who arrived at this habit by accidents or by intuition. If these essays do not do much to justify reading a book about reading, then just read David Denby's Queen Lear, his memory of an intelligent, powerful, yet unreflected mother whose psyche was shattered by the stripping of power -- losing husband to death, losing son to marriage, losing social purpose as a business woman. Without a well-stocked interior world, she was the raging female counterpart of Lear -- demanding the world to fill up the dark space where the other forces of life has receded. Perhaps her pain will be more consolable, and her thrusting and grasping less harsh if she had been a reader? David Denby seems to imply that perhaps reading may have been palliative to life's despairing pain.