A few weeks ago, I purchased a few of books from the library.  The price was right (oh, how right it was), and they were ripe for the picking.  While the middle-aged librarian behind the desk took my five and went about getting my change for me, she glanced at the books I had bought.  Her facial expression changed from one of disinterested neutrality (I am repetitive.  And redundant!) to one of relief.  I noticed the change nearly immediately, and I mentally went through a list of possible catalysts for her reaction: she saw the clock and realized she would soon be free; she saw a dear friend; the children she was previously yelling at to stop running finally, on the fourth insistence, obeyed; some disaster going on behind me that I was completely oblivious to was somehow diverted; she was thankful that those poor, lonely books were finally going to get a home; she realized–and that was when my mental postulates were interrupted by her voice as she held out a tattered dollar between her fingers to complement my mildly tattered books.  “Here you go.  It’s so nice to see someone your age reading something enriching for fun.”

It took me two or three seconds to quell my internal castigations and compose myself enough to smile in response to what I am sure was a good-intentioned compliment.  I then gathered my books in my arms and turned around and walked away.

What I had wanted to do, though, was to ask her when was the last time she saw someone her age outside of Academia read something enriching for fun.  If you ask me (which you did not, but which I am choosing to overlook), more chronologically advanced adults are no better than young adults when it comes to reading.  The fact that my generation and those after mine are targeted as devouring what I call “dessert reads” that are not much better than your average television show is somewhat farcical.  It is certainly well-deserved, but it is by no means an infection of youthful fancy.  It is an infection, but it has transgressed age limitations.  What was once perhaps a youthful indulgence has become the standard for men and women of all ages.  It is a social pandemic.  People no longer read to engage their mind; they read to escape it.

That is not to say that dessert reads do not have their place; they absolutely do.  I just do not believe that they should be the bread and butter of an individual’s literary consumption.

I read an article, I believe through Jen, that said that an individual’s intellectual (or cognitive? I’m not sure, and there is somewhat of a difference) peak is at twenty-two years old. I think this is probably true for many people, but I think it is their own doing. Most people (Granted, there are exceptions, like me) graduate college at the age of twenty-two. Most people do not go onto grad school. This number seems to average out, given that not everybody goes to college and not everybody goes to grad school. So, for many people, they are in an environment which essentially forces them to exercise their cognitive abilities until the age of twenty-two, and thereafter are left to their own devices. The brain is just like any muscle of your body; you have to use it or else it will atrophy. Similarly, this is the only time when most people tend to read “enriching” literature. Then, when they have more freedom in the matter, they abandon it for something less cognitively straining.

Older generations pass off the blame, when the truth is, they are guilty of much the same. The interesting thing, though, is that older generations are not really trying to do anything about it. They do nothing to nurture good reading habits. This is not a plague of merely my generation. It is a plague of every generation, and it is damaging our society in a way that most people do not even notice.