I like to read—I always have. I've devoured fiction as if it were only the first piece of pumpkin pie on Thanksgiving. I'm not terribly picky with my books. In fact, I'm probably too forgiving with authors; as if willing a story to be good can over come a writer's lack of skill.
The more I engage, however, with the writing of C.S. Lewis, the more I'm convinced I'm not a good reader—at least, not a literary one. Though I may resonate with a few of his characterizations of a literary reader, I'm afraid I too often dismiss a work "because I've read it before." The following is an excerpt from Lewis's book An Experiment in Criticism—words which have become my marching orders as I continue to learn how to read.
In the first place, the majority never read anything twice. The sure mark of an unliterary man is that he considers “I’ve read it already” to be a conclusive argument against reading a work. We have all known women who remembered a novel so dimly that they had to stand for half an hour in the library skimming through it before they were certain they had once read it. But the moment they became certain, they rejected it immediately. It was for them dead, like a burnt-out match, an old railway ticket, or yesterday’s paper; they had already used it. Those who read great works, on the other hand, will read the same work ten, twenty or thirty times during the course of their life.
Secondly, the majority, though they are sometimes frequent readers, do not set much store by reading. They turn to it as a last resource. They abandon it with alacrity as soon as any alternative pastime turns up. It is kept for railway journeys, illnesses, odd moments of enforced solitude, or for the process called “reading oneself to sleep.” They sometimes combine it with desultory conversation; often, with listening to the radio. But literary people are always looking for leisure and silence in which to read and do so with their whole attention. When they are denied such attentive and undisturbed reading even for a few days they feel impoverished.
Thirdly, the first reading of some literary work is often, to the literary, an experience so momentous that only experiences of love, religion, or bereavement can furnish a standard of comparison. Their whole consciousness is changed. They have become what they were not before. But there is no sign of anything like this among the other sort of readers. When they have finished the story or the novel, nothing much, or nothing at all, seems to have happened to them.
Finally, and as a natural result of their different behavior in reading, what they have read is constantly and prominently present to the mid of the few, but not to that of the many. The former mouth over their favourite lines and stanzas in solitude. Scenes and characters from books provide them with a sort of iconography by which they interpret or sum up their own experiences. They talk to one another about books, often and at length. The latter seldom think or talk of their reading.