I have been thinking quite a bit lately about the act of reading and more specifically about the significance of the material that we choose to read. A recent OnFiction blog post compares the statement of “You are what you eat” to the idea that “You are what you read”. Do I really believe this? If I do, what does my lack of literary discrimination say about me? When I was younger, I was an obsessed bookworm who would read anything that I could get my hands on : Anne of Green Gables, Kipling’s Just so Stories, the Babysitters’ Club, my mom’s Women’s Weekly magazine, etc. As long as I was reading then I was content. Over the years I haven’t changed, I went on to get a BA in French and Quebec literature at Université Laval. I am proud to say that I’ve not only read Marcel Proust but I understood him well enough to enjoy the experience. Yet, I love laughing out loud to Sophie Kinsella and *gasp*, have been known to read the occasional Harlequin. How is this possible??? Last summer, I went through a horrible break-up and read nothing but self-help books like Better Single than Sorry by Jen Schefft. This summer, I’m embracing my ecological side and my favourite summer read has been Car Sick : Solutions for a Car-addicted Culture by Lynn Sloman. Maybe the conclusion is that I’m a very complex person and that my schizophrenic-like taste in reading material responds to the diverse interests of my personality.
What does your reading say about you?