The Uncommon Reader — Review by Chris

Reading is a way to expand your mind, grow as a person and learn about the surrounding world. But what if you were the Queen of England, whose mind is expanded beyond that of the "commoner," whose world is the world? What can reading do for the Queen?

In The Uncommon Reader, Alan Bennett supposes that very thing.

Queen Elizabeth is a pleasant enough woman, not terribly self-aware and not really all that interested in becoming that way. She refers to herself in the third person, as "one." (Which makes sense — she is rather singular, isn't she?)

Then she has a chance encounter with a bookmobile.

Perusing the bookshelves with the Queen of England is fun and interesting. Her selection process is very unique. She knows many authors, but not as much from their books as from their encounters with her: who was knighted, who had an audience, who had brushes with other members of the Royal Family (famous, infamous or private). Like other heads of state, she has a library herself — and her musings on her own library are wonderful.

Reading makes people think. So, what would reading make the Queen Elizabeth II think about?

Reading makes people wonder. What do monarchs wonder about?

Monarchs have power. How does reading affect someone in that very precarious spot?

Monarchs, as a rule, do not change; they're in it for life, and most people assume that what they see is what they get — forever. However, reading does change people. Can a monarch be changed by a novel, a book of poetry? What does one learn about one's self in someone else's memoir? What does that mean?

Reading is fun. Can a woman who has been leader of part of the free world for five decades enjoy this activity? Will she be allowed?

Finally, many people wonder what Queen Elizabeth II carries in her handbag. I always wondered what was on her nightstand. This gives us a (fictitious) glance.

This lovely little book was a quick and delicious bite of fancy. One learns about personality, power, control, manipulation, appearances, heads of state and more. The progress is solid and logical, but not at all plodding or without surprises. Frankly, it's worth it all for the final scene, even the final sentence.

The author shows a kindness and affection for this fictitious monarch. There is no judgment (which I wonder would be possible for an American author writing about the sitting U.S. President). The perspective is third-person, so one has a glimpse of more than the mind of the monarch — which is like bonus after bonus. Bennett shows us how those closest to the Queen interact with her on a personal and professional level. How does one manage her? How does one converse with her — or do they? What goes through the mind of those who encounter the Queen? Read Bennett's book to find out.

I gladly recommend this novella. It will make readers think to themselves exactly what reading means to them — and will allow them to wonder what reading could mean to others, a delight in itself.

Communal Reading: There's Nothing Like It!

We already have established that I'm a compulsive reader. Nothing is safe from my eyes. I would read an aspirin bottle over and over if it was my only source of reading material. (Perish the thought!)

Now, the question is, "What brings me joy when I read?"

I discovered it this weekend as I picked up the book Fluke. Carole reviewed it and loved it, and I thought I'd read it, too. I had just finished Julia's Chocolates and posted my revisit of the book to compliment Carole's review. As we talked about the books she had read that were perched around my house, I watched her peruse two books she was interested in starting: Under the Tuscan Sun and A Great and Terrible Beauty.

"Tell me when you start that one!" I said as I picked up the latter title from the pool table. "I'll start it, too, and we'll read it together." Then I sighed. "I miss that."

What brings me joy when I read: sharing.

Oh, I'm not that altruistic. The act of reading is very pleasurable for me and I'd do it alone. I have. But how much better to share the discovery of a book with a friend?

Carole and I anxiously await the next book by Jasper Fforde or Geraldine Brooks (to name just a couple of our faves). When we get the new book in hand, we choose the day we start, and that's when we crack the spine on the book. It's great to compare where we are and what did we think when — well, you get the gist. I love the conversations that begin, "Where are you?" No salutation, no lead — just the meat (or, for us vegetarians, the tofu) of the conversation.

There are times when one of us sallies forth into the water, then waves our companion into the water. There are times when one of us should. (Or not. Need I mention The Last Templar?) Then there are times when the sand and surf are perfect and we splash in together, jellyfish and horseshoe crabs be darned!

I love when Carole sallies forth. She waves me into some great treats. I love to do that for her, too.

I also love to toss in some unknowns ("It looked good" or "The jacket is intriguing" or "It won the Costa Book Award in 2007, and Geraldine Brooks has a favorable blurb on the cover"). One never knows if the title will pan out, or if the blurbs were more mercenary than honest. Sometimes she loved it and I couldn't find a hook. Other times Carole can't get past the sloth on page 50 (if it's big enough, who could?).

But as nice as the quiet, solitary read is, nothing quite compares to the phone call that starts in the middle:
"Hello?"
"Oh, my stars, I can't believe how Jack finally told Mary about the painting!"
"I know!"

When There's Not an Eye to Spare

Have you ever had one of these days, where you can't get a single moment to sink your eyes into that novel? You eye that magazine, wishing you could take a gander?

Then a single day stretches into two, maybe even three. Or more. (Perish the thought!)

What happens when you can't get to a book? What do you do?

Me, I take two steps: (1) I go to the gym and (b) I use the stair climber. If I use the elliptical machine, I am seduced by the television. Yes, every elliptical at my gym has a small built-in television — perfect for viewing "Cash Cab." Anyway, the little shelf in front of the television is insufficient for propping a book. (I've tried.)

So it's to the stair climber I turn on days when I simply must read. I'm on there for nearly an hour, so I can get quite a few pages under my proverbial belt on that torture device — er, machine.

However, there are weeks where even that is impossible. Lately, I've had weeks that involve travel, company, late nights at work and visits with family and friends. These are weeks where the workday lunch hour is otherwise occupied as well. These are weeks where the day lasts until I limp to bed, exhausted, waaaaay past my bedtime, followed by early mornings running (and there is no book built for that treacherous terrain).

Those are the times when the only books read are the books scattered about the house. Those are the fragmented times, the scatter-shot method of reading. I always have a few books in that state. Some books do not survive that kind of reading, and they're designated to the "focused reading" pile.

But this afternoon, it's a hardback on the stair climber. I tried paperbacks, but alas, they're impossible to prop open without monumental amounts of frustration (which cause the machine to get angry, beep and demand a reset — which in turn requires moving the perfectly settled book). Last week, I started Gentlemen of the Road (a quick read, but not one for the machine) and Unaccustomed Earth (good, but intense -- plan to read other books or stories between these stories).

Today I have 20th Century Ghosts, which most likely will give me more nightmares. Don't worry: David has been put on high alert. (There's no telling what will happen in the dark of the night with this imagination.) (Wait, that's not what — oh, never mind.) Maybe when I get home, I will get a in few pages of Julia's Chocolates to calm my nerves.

Wish me luck.

Buddy, Can You Spare An Eye?

I think I'm in a little over my head. And that's with the stack of books starting at chest height.

My reading list is getting almost dangerous. Between the two Isaacsons (not counting his newest), a couple of Alboms (yes, I'm hooked on the "Brad Pitt" of the book world, thanks to Carole for her criticism and phraseology!), another Gaiman and a book of women poets from antiquity to the present, I'm going to be a little busy for a while. And we won't even get into the newest releases in a new stack next to the Fall for the Book authors.

Or the All Fairfax Reads book.

And how about The Red Tent, which I have shared with three people, put a fourth copy on a communal bookshelf and have promised to discuss with at least two other people?

Or the new-to-me copy of Benefits, the feminist science fiction from college I finally found? Or the two — no, three novels on the living room chest?

Really, I am in over my head. I need to give up my day job to get some reading done. Or give up sleeping. If I didn't have to worry about a house payment, the decision would be a no-brainer. (Wait, which would I sacrifice again? Sleep or the job? Or both?)

So, please, save me from myself. If you see me wandering into my Borders (it is "my Borders," truth be told, with as much as my paycheck as I deposit there when I leave with my new stack), stop me. If you see me balancing books precariously in my arms as I precariously step out of Yesterday's Rose, don't believe me when I say they're all for the lunchroom. The public library isn't safe by any means: those books are free! (Fines not included.) And let's not mention the dime or freebies shelf. Intervention isn't a bad idea.

But instead, I'd prefer a second set of eyes so I can catch up on my reading.

Until then, look for me behind the towering stack of books on my table. I'll see you on the other side of the page.