A Year in Reading: Natalie Bakopoulos
Maps of Days
Though I’ve always craved some kind of systematic approach to reading—whatever that might look like—my reading is often chaotic, starting six books at once, making it through one or two, starting five more, and so on. Eventually I get to them, I suppose. I know a lot of people lament not being able to read at all during these times—the overwhelming state of working from home, or homeschooling, or lots of activity in a small space, or the political distractions and dread. And I understand, my focus is often terrible—I can barely respond to email at all—but reading is one place I’ve found deep solace. Since I’ve been a child, reading has been a way I create calmness, a sort of reset—and also the way I procrastinate. It’s not just the immersion in another consciousness, though that’s of course part of it; it’s something about the slow, physical act of reading, the way my breathing slows down, my body sinks in to the language on the page.
For the past several years, I’ve been keeping messy lists of books read, and books I buy, and books I begin. I won’t mention the latter two here of course because my putting a book down, or buying and not reading, rarely has little to do with quality or enjoyment and more to do with mood and happenstance and time. I think I might have started more books than I finished this year, though I’ve finished a lot, and my to-read pile is tall. (As a side note: thank you, indie booksellers, for not only providing curbside pickup and shipping but also for hosting nonstop Zoom events.)
My reading this year in particular was its own sort of keeping time. I often associate a book with where I am, where I read it—planes, cafes, libraries, balconies, beaches, and so on—but this year my setting did not change. I found great relief when the warm weather arrived, and the summer seemed to open everything up and make the lockdown more bearable. Day 65, day 100, day 254: my to-read list grew and shrank, grew and shrank. Reading outside with a cold
