Being the bookish type, books naturally come up as a topic for conversation for me a lot. As a conversation around books meanders, I sometimes find myself mentioning a title or two in a way that’s very reasonably seen as recommending them. I always feel slightly guilty on such occasions. I can’t very well be recommending a book to somebody without knowing that person’s opportunity cost for reading it. What if the person has much better books on his plate? What if she just has better things to do with her time than sitting down with this book whose name dropped out of my mouth? Who am I to say, “hey, great book. You should read it.” (or something very close to that)?
This is compounded by the fact that I hardly ever get around to reading things people recommend to me. This is even though I set aside great chunks of time to do nothing other read. So in infinitely delaying reading somebody’s recommended tome, I’m usually guilty of rejecting it in favor of another book. Nobody takes that “rejection” very seriously, I know. After all, I don’t feel “rejected” in any way when a book I mentioned doesn’t get picked up by those around me. The universe of books for reading is so big; no wonder we don’t bump into each other while wandering it, even if we know one another’s path. Nothing to pore over about, yet here I am, writing this blog post. Let this just be one of those cathartic posts when I admit to something silly and then get over it.
OK, I’m almost all the way over it now.