The joy of reading

I have just finished reading The Uncommon Reader by Alan Bennett in which he writes as if he were the Queen who has just discovered the joy of reading. In this short yet thought-provoking novel, the Queen becomes wholly absorbed in the supposedly self-indulgent pleasure of reading and finds herself understanding her surroundings and subjects in a much more sensitive manner than her previously less-literate self. Those working close to her object to her new found pastime, seeing it as selfish and inappropriate due to its idol nature and lack of visible positive change to those in contact with the Queen. After a while her time spent reading evolves into time spent writing as she feels that this is a healthy compromise for all affected by her leisure pursuits. Writing, she considers, is an act of doing as opposed to just being and therefore less selfish as something physically happens out of the action. Fictitious as it is, the notion that reading or allowing yourself to be completely absorbed in an interest is selfish and disconnecting from ones surroundings is a sad one. I have always valued time spent on personal pleasures, such as reading, valuable and rewarding. There is a very fine line between selfish and looking after yourself but understand the line of selfishness to be crossed when other people are negatively affected by the action in question. It is 1.30am on a Saturday night and I have just spent the last two hours reading myself, instead of joining good friends in town. I am sure they have not lost out by my absence and I feel I have not missed out as I have enjoyed my "old-before-my-time" night with book and mug of peppermint tea in hand.