ILLUSTRATION BY DREW SHANNON
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Each summer my greatest fear resurfaces, stronger than ever: running out of good books to read.
There are lots of books available, with hundreds more published each day. But, what about the books that capture my imagination and stay with me for decades? In my darkest moods, I think there will never be another like the very best that I’ve already read.
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I could reread – and do so at times – my favourite books. However, they don’t provide the jolt that came when I read them the first time. The mystery, wizardry, punch to the gut, “oh, no!” and “I can’t stop reading till the last page” is not as powerful and satisfying the second time.
This does not mean that my favourites are discarded from the bookshelves at home. They are good friends and like human good friends, have a special place. But the bookshelf cannot remain static.
My most awful reading experience is starting a book that has every indication of being one that I will adore but then find it wanting after the first few chapters. I am then faced with decision of whether to continue to the end or give up halfway. Most often I push on, keeping alive a thread of hope that the book will redeem itself.
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Economists have a term for exactly this experience: sunk cost fallacy. It describes the tendency of people to keep investing in something because giving up would invalidate the time and money already spent.
Often this occurs for me with a new book from an author whose previous book, sometimes her first, I cherished. The high expectations for the new release are dashed and the best I can manage is sympathy for the writer who might never recapture the dazzle of her previous work.
I am consoled that there is a word for my fear of running out of good books to read: abibliophobia. However, it is not formally recognized by medical professionals dashing any hope of my seeking treatment.
For a while during the past year, I expected that second-hand book sales would alleviate my bouts of abibliophobia. I haunted these in my neighbourhood, libraries and university campuses. The non-commercial settings caused me less stress about finding my perfect book. New book bookstores with their bestseller lists, marketing and promotions imply that all books are wonderful. I found the opposite at used booked sales.
Knowing that someone else had already invested money and time in a book gave me a particular sense of comfort and connection. I also admit that the prices are appealing, allowing me to buy many more volumes than otherwise.
Soon the shelves in our home were full of used books extending to stacks on the floor. Most were not in the category of my favourites but having purchased them I find myself facing the sunk cost fallacy.
Consequently, I’ve banned myself from buying used books for the rest of year. But I am allowing myself visits to book sales.
My wife tells me not to worry. She points out – quite rightly – that I will read anything lying around from manuals for appliances to flyers left in our mailbox. But if that, along with disappointing books, is all that remains to the end of my days, my remaining years will be grim. She also gently advises that I broaden my reading list to include more genres and authors. I reply that when it comes to books, I know what I like and I like what I know.
My 20-year-old twins suggest I try other formats, such as e-books or audio books or graphic novels. But that is just not possible for me. A book is white paper pages containing black letters affixed to each other to form words, that when linked create sentences and paragraphs. That is all, except for the magic that follows.
In my gloomiest nights I imagine that there is no book I will read that matches or exceeds the wonder of those I’ve already savoured. To guard against this apocalyptic future, I hoard a few books during the winter months that promise wonderful reading.
These I only permit myself to open during the summer. I know not all of them will be fantastic, but so long as at least one startles and amazes like none before, my fear will abate… at least for a little while.
Thomas Klassen lives in Toronto.
