If you've visited my Ruined by Reading page, you've seen a list of things I claim to be reading right now.  I borrowed the title from Lynne Sharon Schwartz's book, which I have not read. It's described by some reviewers as a "meditation" (that means it's short) and a "memoir" (that means it's more about the author than about the subject), and it is both praised and panned -- praised because it's charming and lets readers wander off into their own memories, panned because it's superficial, doesn't treat serious subjects such as how the brain processes the written word or how great books have influenced civilization.

Personally, the words "meditation" and "memoir" are what attract me. While the science of intelligence and the shaping and saving of the world as we know it are important, they're out of my purview. I like the personal -- what did a particular experience engender in you, what has a similar experience wrought in me?

I read a lot -- more than I did when I was employed full time, less than I thought I would now that much of my time is my own. I like to read poetry in the silence of the early morning, nonfiction while seated at a desk (with notebook at the ready), fiction on a big comfy couch.

The title "Ruined by Reading" is for me facetious. I was going to say "of course," but then I remembered that there are people who think information is dangerous. I have used reading as a drug -- to escape from loneliness, to try to be somebody else for a while. As a child I was told more than once to get my nose out of a book and go play.

I live surrounded by books, and I buy them compulsively. If there were some sort of ban on publishing and book buying and library use that went into effect today, I could occupy myself with what's already in the house until well into the next century (whenever it begins).

For a long time beginning in the late 70s I didn't read fiction. When I became pregnant in 1985, the desire for fiction showed up as a craving as strong as any for pickles or ice cream. I was feeling a little nervous about going into reduced circumstances in order to stay home with my infant. I saw a poster that said "Libraries will get you through times of no money better than money will get you through times of no libraries." I liked that.

Of the four titles currently on my list, I'm having a slow go with Quieter Than Sleep. I haven't decided yet if it's because murder mysteries are really not appealing to me or if the difficulty lies in the fact that I'm using a small size paperback edition set in a tiny typeface on newsprint -- my eyesight is not what it used to be.

Ari Goldman's The Search for God at Harvard is a re-read, and it's just as compelling now as it was when I first read it five years ago. I haven't really gotten into the Anne Lamott's Traveling Mercies yet. And More Light -- well, poetry is poetry.

The spring issue of Glimmer Train (a quarterly journal of absolutely first-rate short stories) arrived in the mail yesterday. In reading I'm a bit of a faithless lover -- Quieter Than Sleep  just isn't doing it for me. GT's glossy cover, its charming contributors' notes, and my study's big comfy couch beckon for the afternoon.

See you tomorrow.