How to Talk About Books You Haven’t Read is an actual book. Oldish news, I know, but there I was, under the impression it existed solely as blogger banter fodder, sure that no one would actually pick it up and read it. But one evening as I sat on the subway reading a novel, blissfully naive and dreaming of worldwide bookishness (as you do), I realized a woman sitting across from me was doing exactly that.
She was not necessarily a studious poseur, I now realize. The book is said to be more substantial than its title suggests– according to Publisher’s Weekly, “[Pierre] Bayard’s at least partly tongue-in-cheek argument about not reading is well worth reading.” Recommended by writer Susan Hill, who writes about Bayard’s idea of our “inner libraries” and says, “The title makes it sound like one of those How to Bluff books but it is far more serious and scholarly, while being extremely readable and making a lot of sense.”
In an essay published by The Guardian, Bayard writes, “Non-reading goes far beyond the act of leaving a book unopened. To varying degrees, books we’ve skimmed, books we’ve heard about and books we have forgotten also fall into the rich category that is non-reading. Life, in its cruelty, presents us with a plethora of situations in which we might find ourselves talking about books we haven’t read.”
I find this fascinating actually; I very nearly want to read Bayard’s book (except that people on public transit might think that I’m obnoxious, and I’m not out to start trouble).
I recently read Nathan Whitlock’s novel A Week of This, whose main character Manda tries and fails to get into In the Skin of a Lion. I was speaking with a friend afterwards and she told me she’d had the same problem. “I’ve never admitted this before,” she said. “I just lie and say I’ve read it so I don’t look like an idiot.”
And her admission struck me as profound. Suggesting to me that Bayard is entirely right when he suggests that we must re-evaluate the way we talk about books. Suggested further as I sit here about to assert to you that my friend is “well-read” (because she is, as well as startlingly clever), and now I wonder what “well-read” means anyway, exactly, and doesn’t it all seem just a little bit wanky?
As much as my friend shouldn’t have to lie or hide for fear of being seen as stupid, neither is shouting our “didn’t get throughs” from the rooftops the answer. To consider Mrs. Dalloway a bad book, for example, because you couldn’t get through it, strikes me as arrogant and ignorant. To write a 1 star Amazon review proclaiming the book a bore because you couldn’t make it past page 20 is annoying and sometimes abhorrent.
There are so many reasons we don’t make it through books. Perhaps they were never meant for us in the first place, or not for us at this point in time, or perhaps we just don’t have the skills or experience to tackle them yet (it took me two tries to actually finish Mrs. Dalloway, and maybe two more to come to love her). Some books require a commitment we’re just not willing to make, or at least not now, or maybe not ever.
Steps towards a solution, I think, would begin with we Common Readers having more confidence in our own sensibilities, but also understanding that our tastes are not always a strict indication of value. That value can be relative, and goodness/badness is a tiresome approach to criticism anyway, leaving far more doors closed than opened. We should keep in mind that judgments made based upon one’s literary sensibilities can be superficial and/or altogether ill-founded. And that an unbeatable book doesn’t make you any less, but it doesn’t always mean the book is lesser either.
 Once upon a time, children, gay people were outsiders. They had special stores and bars and such. Just for them! They liked opera and literature and social action. 