The Joy of Reading

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Reading is my favorite thing to do. When I was ten and supposed to go to sleep at a certain time, I read under the covers with a flashlight until my father told me I would ruin my eyes. I didn’t stop; I was willing to risk my sight to enjoy the pleasures of reading. In fact he was wrong; after seventy years I can still read, even without glasses if there’s enough light.

I have had many teachers. I’ve learned something important from each of them. This book is partly my attempt to repay them.

My mother first taught me to read, I remember very well. I was not in school; we were living in the country, and she and I had lessons every morning. My first book was The Little Fir Tree. It was about a little forest tree that was glad it was cut down for Christmas and taken to the home of a nice boy and girl. I would not let any child read that book now.

Once the door was open, I pushed through eagerly. By the time I entered high school I had read a good deal; more, probably, than most kids my age. My father had fostered my reading (when he wasn’t prohibiting it, thinking I should go outdoors and get some fresh air) by suggesting a wide variety of titles and giving me all kinds of books as Christmas and birthday presents. He didn’t care if I read them all; he just wanted me to be acquainted with different kinds of books and not to be afraid to read any particular kind. He kept giving me books as long as he lived. I still have many of them, especially those he sent me when I was serving in the Air Force in World War II. I carried for months in the breast pocket of my fatigues a hard-bound copy of Palgrave’s Golden Treasury. A tough little book with hard covers, it was a kind of talisman that I thought would stop a bullet and save my life.

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