It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of literacy, must be in want of a woman to tell him he should read more literary fiction.
I might have written the above in jest, and in all respectful affection toward the OG of Regency romance, but the joke is also one made in ire. I may be one of the few men in the United States who reads entirely for pleasure, rather than for self-improvement. I care nothing for the arguments that reading fiction makes readers more empathetic. Nor do I spare more than scant tolerance for those who would tell me what I should read.
For me, reading requires no justification. That I enjoy it is reason enough; reason is merely the slave of the passions, as David Hume observed. Any logic I might weave to justify my pleasure is a mere post-hoc rationalization, and I am sufficiently well-read to know it.
Moreover, I have lived sufficiently long to have gained this modicum of wisdom: if my pleasures harm none save myself, then I am under no obligation to justify them to anybody; itâs my funeral, and Iâll die if I want to. Therefore I shall read as I please, and sometimes write about what Iâve read here.
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