Responses to last week’s post on demonstrative reading have been all over the map. Most people I heard from seemed to take for granted the attention-seeking dimension of reading in public and wondered what all my fuss was about. I suppose it’s become a banal observation what with the boom in Starbuck’s-sitting and, of course, the invasion of the bookstore-cafes. More to the point, though, I shied away in my post from admitting just how painfully self-conscious this variety of reading could be when I was younger. Sometimes there was very little turning of pages at all but very much furtive looking up to see whether I’d been noticed. I must have looked ridiculous. Also, on rare occasions I managed to stick myself with a book I really, really didn’t want to read. I drew the line at books in other languages, but New Directions translations could be irresistible. These days I’m unlikely to be seen reading anything very impressive at all, since it’s the Westlakes (but not the Starks, mind you, which are trade paperbacks), John D. MacDonalds, and Reginald Hills that fit best in my purse.
Over at Tingle Alley, Carrie has come up with a few delicious anecdotes about demonstrative reading gone wrong. Herein you’ll find the memorable lament “Oh no, you’re one of those girls who walk around reading Cort