I’m not one of the those people who reads books until the wee hours of the morning.  I used to be, in my adolescence, when I would devour whole tomes of fantasy in marathon sittings.  I was hungry for the escapism they provided and the kaleidoscope worlds they weaved in my imagination.  But those days are gone.  My life now is infinitely more complex, though equally more rewarding, and the responsibilities that come with working full-time, owning a house, having two children, a beautiful wife etc mean the wee small hours of the morning are reserved exclusively for sleep – not that my kids always respect this. Sweet, sweet sleep!

But I do manage to read my fair share of books, not as quickly as I once did, but may be a new book on average every 3 or 4 weeks, depending on the length of the book and my commitment to it.

But I am not a speed reader.  I hate speed readers.

To me reading is a full body experience; a contact sport.  From the trip to the book shop (yep I still like doing it old skool and going to a real bookshop), to scanning the shelves for inspiration, to the smell of ink on paper and the combination of smooth book cover and coarse pages.  It’s the weight of the book in my hand and the cramp I get holding it open with one hand while avoiding bumping in to people as I walk down the street staring at the pages.

I just don’t think it’s possible to fully experience the story, and the experience of reading the story, if you’re having to make the trade-offs required to ‘speed read’.  Imagine trying to read One Hundred Years of Solitude (Gabriel García Márquez) in a single sitting or really appreciating the comic timing and love of words Flann O’Brien weaves together in At Swim-Two-Birds while skimming or meta guiding.  The winner of the 2013 IMPAC Dublin Literary Award, Kevin Barry’s City of Bohane, requires the reader to invest heavily and carefully in the experience of reading, to be rewarded in droves for the commitment to an extraordinarily creative use of the English language.

But speed readers are just so damned chuffed with themselves.  They wear it like a badge of honour – flicking through the pages like someone looking up a word in a dictionary.  There’s an intellectual arrogance to it.  It’s like they are all in a secret club complete with secret handshakes, where with one look they can instantly recognise each other as members of this club.  They’re the freemasons of reading.  I can’t stand it.

It would be easy to say I’m jealous, but I just can not believe speed readers are able to comprehend the story at all the subtle levels the author intends, or that they are able to make connections between the story and their own collective experiences.  This is what I love about books; and I don’t want to rush it.  Therefore, to my mind, their arrogance is misplaced, and misplaced arrogance is foolish and dangerous.

If it takes me an hour to read a page to fully appreciate what the author is saying and I have to sweat, grunt and cringe my way through each and every page, paragraph, line and word, then so be it.  I’m content with reading without gimmicks, techniques or a stop watch.  Just watch out if you see me walking down the street, my head buried in the pages of my latest book.