There are a ton of crummy books out there, but if you say you’ve read a book, even one of those crummy ones, you must, surely, have some smattering of intelligence. Books, somehow, give you credentials that you’re not a complete moron. Doesn’t matter what the book’s about; hell, it could be about any kind of idiotic crap, but the mere fact that you opened a book, read each page, then closed the book, somehow makes you just that much brighter to the outside world.

See, I just don’t get it.

When we were teenagers we read Shakespeare, because we had to. (Really, how many teenagers do you know who willingly choose to read Shakespeare over Kim Kardashian’s make-up tips in this month’s issue of Seventeen?) I don’t recall enjoying Shakespeare’s books, but I was pretty good in English and I could churn out the symbolism with the best of them. I don’t recall much of his work, but the one thing my brain refuses to discard, for whatever inane reason, is a few lines I read back in the early ’70s when I was Metellus Cimber in some acting-out of the scenes of Julius Caesar at the front of the class:

Is there no voice more worthy than my own to sound more sweetly in great Caesar’s ear for the repealing of my banished brother?

I have visions of me as a babbling old woman, reciting these words that I can’t seem to purge, while nurses tending to me are convinced I’m mad.

After all the English classes I’ve sat through studying Shakespearean symbolism, that’s the sum, bloody total of all those classes. A quote that, no matter how many years fly by, seems to stick in my head like Elmer’s school glue. I can’t remember what I had for lunch yesterday, but I can remember whispering in great Caesar’s ear. And I’ll tell you another thing, being Metellus really didn’t add to my life a whole heck of a lot.

Don’t you ever wonder if William Shakespeare really sat at his desk and pondered every possible symbolic meaning for future teachers of English to wring out to uninspired pupils? I don’t think he did. I really don’t.

Holden Caulfield added to my life. If there were ever a character that is deserving of adding to my life, it’s Salinger’s Caulfield. Whereas Shakespeare’s works are allegedly full of symbolism, Holden was just right up there saying it like it was. No strange bending of the English language, just plain, straight talk. If Holden was a real person, I think he would have thought J.D. Salinger a genius.

Ya got that Ackley?

That’s the thing about books, if you ask me; they’re not always all they’re cracked up to be, but there are those special ones that truly make a dent in the brain matter and still make you think years after you’ve read them.

And I don’t know if that’s Caulfield speaking, or if it’s me.

It’s not that I’m against reading, I’m against people who read far too much into famous writers’ works. Honestly, I could read one paragraph of any book you hand me and turn every word, every nuance, every comma into deeper meaning. I could BS you ’til the cows come home and if I spoke in even the slightest affected tone, there are those who would buy it all.

Maybe some of Caulfield rubbed off on me. But then, I think – I hope – there’s a bit of Holden in all of us.

The only thing worse than the deep-meaning sorts are the sorts that insist on telling you how many books they’ve read lately, as if it’s a Green Stamp in the ration book of intelligence. I guess I don’t give a rat’s a$$ about how many books you’ve read, but I’d be very interested if you’d read just a few that gave you plenty to think about, and that you’ve kept thinking about. Those are the books that count.

In grade one, our daughter won an award for reading the most books that school year. When your child is beginning her school years, you’re overjoyed by any number of things – the traced hand, cut out, coloured, and stuck with feathers to look like a Thanksgiving turkey, too many finger paintings held on the fridge by kiddie magnets, or pages stapled together to make a real ‘journal’ where they practice their primitive version of printing. One feels a vicarious sense of accomplishment even through a six-year-old because they’ve read a ton of “chapter” books. As I look back on it now, was it a race to the finish? Was it something she loved? Or, was it that my husband and I continually read with her?

The best book I’ve read recently isn’t even a book. It’s still in manuscript form, but finished, and written by a friend of mine, and I couldn’t put it down. Those are the books that count. I can’t, for the life of me, read a book simply because it’s on the Top Ten list du jour. Many books in those top tens rarely appeal to me. Heather Reisman’s picks, Oprah’s picks, for instance, I hardly ever fancy, because I find they have a certain leaning towards books I do not, in the least, find remotely appealing.

Hannelore Headley

You can, however, plonk me down in Hannelore Headley’s Old & Fine Books in St. Catharines and I will be in my element for hours. Mrs. Headley may very well be the last of the true, authentic booksellers left out there. No air of condescension, no accompanying chi-chi coffees for eight bucks a pop, no overpriced gifts set out for unsuspecting customers – just a real, old-fashioned, charming book shop in an old house that has a bell attached to the door so that the aging Mrs. Headley can greet you in her German-tinged English and with her impeccable manners. She is one class act, this woman, let me tell you, and she actually – genuinely – thanks you for your custom as you leave her shop. None of this “have a nice day” drivel that you find in the big-box stores. Yes, if it comes to lining the coffers of Reisman or Headley, I’ll choose Mrs. Headley every time.

If I were really BS’ing you, of course, I’d tell you I’m concerned about the environment and prefer to buy used books for that reason, but if it’s the truth you’re after, the reason I prefer antiquated books is that, like most things old and worn, they have indisputable character. And I love character. Old books have a slightly musty scent to them, the years filing down the paper and inks, the fading colour of the pages and illustrations. You’ll never find that in brand new books. I like the creased edges, the fact that others before me have read those same pages. I like reading print that looks old, pages that have actually gone through an honest-to-goodness printing-press. As much as I love technology, there is something about the smudging of a bit of ink here and there that sits better with me than a stark page of “on-demand” print that doesn’t show the slightest quiver of the manufacturing process.

Well, listen, I could go on and on about the aspects of books and reading, but I’ve bent your ear for long enough.

At least for now.