> In fairness, books have a complicated history in my family. One delayed my own fretful entrance: When the doctor wanted to induce my mother’s labor, she asked him to come back in an hour as she wanted to finish Dürrenmatt’s “The Visit.” Not long before, she’d gone to see her own father in the hospital. Sensing that she wanted to leave but felt too guilty to say so, he assured her he had plenty to keep him company and patted the book tented on his chest. He died during the night.

> Books were also cudgels in my home. If you weren’t reading enough, you were informed. I was once made to spend an entire day at a beach house locked in a room until I’d read 80 pages. Was that tough-love character-building or a way that my father bought quiet so he could get back to whatever wind-whipped pages he was immersed in that day?

I wish I was born in that kind environment. Most of my family members are not avid readers, some don’t even read at all. I got lucky because I read more than the average, which is not difficult to do considering the low average books read per year of the people around me. Though, I do wish I have the inclination to read much much more, or at least be pushed to read more than what I’m comfortable with.