Do nothing but read
On the joys of getting lost in a book in the era of performative reading. Plus a reading challenge to celebrate World Book Day and The National Year of Reading.
It never stops to amuse me that the UK celebrates World Book Day on a random date, which happens to be this Thursday 5th March.
In Spain World Book Day takes place on 23rd April, a date that commemorates the death of both Cervantes and Shakespeare. It has literary gravitas, you see. Although to be fair, the fact that the UK has decided yet again to go its on way on this matter means I can celebrate my love for books on two different occasions1.
One thing you must know about me is that I’m the happiest when lost inside a book.
Whether is fiction, non-fiction, poetry, a play or a memoir, as long as I’m fully immersed in whatever I have between my hands, I will lose track of time and nothing will make me part from the book I’m holding and the world it has taken me to. My sister has often remarked and wondered at my ability to detach myself from the outside world when reading to the point I would forget to eat, drink, pee or go to sleep. This admittedly happens more often with novels, where I have always found it extremely easy to obliterate reality and disappear into their pages.
Having nothing to do but read has always been my goal in life. If money were no issue, I would gladly spend most of my waking hours in the company of books, oblivious to the outside world, whatever is left of it anyway. Along with writing, reading is the one activity that makes me reach a state of flow, where my mind is fully focused on the words in front of me and the only thing that matters is the fictional universe I am inhabiting, which for a brief moment in time feels as real as the one I am physically bound to.
I confess that as a child I thought, very naively I must add, that would be what adulthood would be like. A time to be finally free from the obligations of school and the expectations other adults had for me and where I could finally spend my time without anyone telling me what to do, where to be, when to leave, or telling me off for always having my nose stuck inside a book.
However, one the best well-kept secrets of adulthood is that once you start working you become a slave to money, and then you die. Richard Ashcroft had figured it all out long before I did. Capitalism and its exacting power over the individual leave little time for indulging in a bit old reading. There are exceptions of course.
You may get ill and be forced to stop working for a bit, in which case you may be able to have extra time for reading2. Which is what happened to me over Christmas as I caught a stomach virus followed by a rather stubborn cold, both of which required me to take it easy for a few weeks. Arguably, leaving the house only to buy food so I didn’t starve meant I suddenly had a few extra hours in the evenings and over the weekend which I could spend languishing at home.
Leaving aside envisaging the worst, what does one do with extra time, terrible weather outside and barely any energy to go beyond one’s front door? You’ve guessed it: Read. I could have easily fallen prey to Netflix in such debilitating circumstances, and it wasn’t for lack of trying3, but one of the ironies of modern life is to have the embarrassment of choice at your fingertips and yet nothing is enticing enough to lure you and your frazzled attention in.
As luck would have it, I was taken hostage by The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mister Hyde, which I hadn’t read before. I was pleased to discover Robert Louis Stevenson was just as good company as I remembered from the days of reading Treasure Island and The Black Arrow. A very suitable choice for my period of convalescence, too, as the darkness inside his novella matched perfectly the gloominess outside. Stevenson’s tale of moral degradation pushed me back to life. Reading life to be precise. It was so good indeed that it left me reaching for another novel almost immediately, which is the highest praise I can think of for a book. It not only satisfies your appetite while you’re reading it, but it makes you hungry for more and guides you towards the next thing you can sink your teeth into, metaphorically speaking.
The magic happened again and despite all my coughing and sneezing, and the odd temperature at night, I was immersed in my third book in a row. I can’t remember the last time I had felt so carefree and been able to abandon myself with such utter delight to books. Funny it had taken been sick to go back to reading and subconsciously I wished this momentary bliss could never end. And yet the convalescence set in motion an unstoppable chain reaction for once I recovered, I was desperately carving out time from my routine to get back to the pages of a book. I’ve turned into a book junkie craving one more chapter before I’m forced to return to the real world.
One of my finest hours indeed and yet an extremely rare occurrence in this age and time of short attention spans and screen entertainment. This relapse into reading, and feeling all the better for it, has reminded me of my teenage years, a time when I used to do nothing but read. It’s unbelievable how energised, focused, optimistic, wittier and smarter I felt as a result. Almost unstoppable one would say. Who would have thought it’d be books and not drugs to have such effect on me? Getting high on reading is definitely cheaper although the withdrawal symptoms are as devastating.
The summers of my teenage years are indeed some of my happiest reading memories. I started to appreciate the power of literature to ignite the imagination and help me envision a different path than the one my circumstances dictated. Being a native of La Mancha I’ve always felt like a modern day Don Quixote as books infected my brain with the thirst for adventure, and since real life was rather lacking in that department, I got my thrills from the fictional worlds books transported me to.
July was usually peak reading time as the school usually finished in late June and I didn’t start my summer job until August so I had a full 31 days to do absolutetely nothing but read. One year I managed to get through 20 books in that month alone. My mum would always say that my brain would melt from so much reading, as if the scorching summer heat, which had us covered in sweat from 9 am, couldn’t manage to do the job on its own.
Summer back home can only be compared to being slowly roasted inside a stone oven for the best part of four months. With temperatures easily reaching over 30 degrees in the evening, it was impossible to go to bed at a decent hour, which it was never before midnight anyway, so a book was usually my inseparable companion to get through the endless summer nights in La Mancha, which will have any Finnish sauna enthusiasts gasping for air after five minutes.
I’ve long thought whether spending the night following Sherlock Holmes around his investigations in foggy and rainy Victorian London, which helped me dissociate from my scorching surroundings, planted perhaps a seed in my subconscious that eventually led me to live in a place with terrible weather. A compensation of sorts for all those nights spent twisting and turning in bed fending off the merciless mosquitoes, which seemed to be the only living creature energized by the heat.
Associating the arrival of the burning summer with the freedom to read as much as I wanted for as long as I wanted, at least for a month where I had no other obligation than to make it through the day, or night, made the prospect of another four months of sweat and mosquito bites a bit more bearable. As the saying goes, what doesn’t kill you, equips you to stay sane during a heatwave.
On the rare occasions the temperature rises and we experience a glimpse of proper summer weather in London4, I wish I could go back to those never-ending sticky July nights where my only care in the world was to get lost into the pages of a book until the distant sound of a cock crowing marked the arrival of dawn.
So much has been said about how smartphones have isolated people into their own worlds -even when they’re in a room with others- and the many dangers social media and easy internet access pose in particular for children and teenagers, a reality captured in the excellent and highly recommended Adolescence.
However, no one has ever questioned what I or my sister were exposed to while quietly reading in bed. On a particularly unbearable sticky summer night, I reached for a book that from its external appearance seemed serious and boring enough to send me to sleep fast because it was too hot even for reading. Imagine my shock when it turned out to be a play about a son who killed his father and then slept with his mother without knowing who either of them were until it was too late, and when he eventually found out, he blinded himself out of guilt.
Needless to say my plan to go to sleep fast was out of the window by page 10. I had to read certain passages twice to make sure the heat wasn’t making me hallucinate what was happening. All I can say is that Oedipus Rex still haunts me. You never forget your first Greek tragedy, I suppose.
I wished more people around me growing up loved reading so I could have shared my puzzlement with them.
But the moment my mum saw me with a book she fired me her standard “your brains are going to melt” and carried on with whatever she was doing, relieved that I was at home with a book -if only she knew what people did to each other in those books- instead of playing out on the street far from her vigilant eye. Most friends from high school weren’t very keen on books either, which I blame on the school curriculum for imposing a ‘one size fits all’ compulsory reading model that put many of my classmates off from opening a book in years, if not forever.
So I was left alone to figure out what the actual fuck play writers in 429 BC were on about to decide that a play about incestuous relationships would be just what the noble people of Athens, the cradle of Western civilization, would go mad for. Maybe they too had to endured very long summers.
A few months later I took Greek and Latin at high school and learned that Sophocles’ Oedipus Rex was only the tip of the iceberg. If tragedies were shocking, Greek mythology was completely mental. That’s what happens when you have a bunch of entitled Gods with plenty of time to kill and no boundaries whatsoever. Zeus, for instance, would transform into the most outrageous things if that meant he could impregnate anything that breathed.
Did anyone check whether I was ok after reading Ovid’s Metamorphoses? Of course not because it was a book I had been told to read for class. At best people thought I was studying and ignored me, at worst they rolled their eyes like a Vegas slot machine gone feral and thought I must be dying of boredom. If only they knew that I was reading about a mythological man-whore who had decided to metamorphose into golden rain just to make Danae have his baby whether she wanted or not, I bet they would have reacted differently.
When people around you don’t like to read, or think it is boring, you get away with a lot in plain sight.
For the first time in my life I was relieved that La Mancha was such a dry region because that bloody Zeus -who goes by Jupiter in Ovid because the Romans copied stole every single story in Greek mythology and thought that if they changed the names no one would notice- was a hazard on a rainy day.
The only possible explanation to come to terms with the string of deranged characters and impossibly dramatic turn of events that are the bread and butter of classic Greek literature was, of course, that summers in Ancient Greece must have been really hot and long for writers to systematically come up stories that make Wuthering Heights a child’s play in comparison. It was their survival mechanism like reading was mine.
Either every writer was delirious as a result of too much nectar drinking and the extenuating heat and found solace in making up bat-shit crazy tales that outdid each other as a way to pass the time, or they thought in earnest that people would love to see a play about a spurned mother who decides the best way to take revenge on her husband is to kill her children. I’m sure Euripides was rather pleased with himself when he thought of that plot twist for Medea. When Sophocles saw it at the Amphitheatre he no doubt must have thought “Hold my nectar.”5
Examining the past through the lens of the present is always a mistake, but I can’t help but wonder how for the people of Athens ‘amphitheatre and chill’ meant spending the evening watching revenge-fueled narratives. Netflix shows may have received a lot of criticism for the Netflixplain effect, that is having characters repeat the plot every five minutes, but a Greek chorus served a similar function. “And now this character is also thinking of how to inflict a violent death to his brother” begged repeating every now and then in case anyone in the audience thought there was still hope.
It’s no wonder centuries later Freud too looked at the past to make his fortune. Any problems people came up to him with had surely been already discussed in a Greek play The traumas of his patients were probably nothing when confronted with the average arch development of most characters in a classic tragedy.
But excuse me, I digress.
I was telling you about how as a result of illness -and the analysis paralysis Netflix puts you in- I seem to have found my way back into reading with the same gleeful enthusiasm and ability to lose myself in a story I possessed when I was a teenager and books had me in a state of trance that blurred the lines between the pages and the real world.
I owe it to Robert Louis Stevenson - trust a Scotsman to get the job done is my motto from now on- and its classic tale of double personality. Reading Jekyll and Hyde has reminded me of the part of myself that finds immense pleasure in undisturbed reading, oblivious to the world and its demands on me, and which will happily ditch any social commitment to spend time with a good story but which I had suppressed and kept hidden under a veneer of sociability and professionalism once I started working and became a slave to the whims of capitalism (and everything it demands of you just for existing) instead of the written word.
Unfortunately in a city like London the possibility of being destitute is never equal to zero and you need both a job and people who can give you a hand in times of need, and as a result I am required to work and nurture relationships, both activities that are highly distracting and steal a lot of time I can’t dedicate to the one thing I’d rather be doing.
For all their merits, books can’t yet pay rent or bills, which is a disgrace, if you ask me. I can’t believe we are living in the most technologically advanced society and no one has yet solved this issue. Is this the future we truly want?
The bright side, of course, is that I’ve reconnected with my true essence and core identity, which is being a reader and a book lover, someone who can live a thousand lives among the pages of a good story and is energised by time spent in the company of words digested in silence without rush or agenda. Someone who, if money was no object, would do nothing but read. At home for sure but also outside at the park, or at the bookshop, perhaps at a local coffee shop if it’s not too noisy.
Although I may need to think twice my choice of place as well as book as apparently the noble art of reading, especially in public, is now seen as as a pose, a performative act that is more an aesthetic (the intention is to be seen reading a certain kind of book) than a simple act where the imagination takes charge and we are transported to other places and lives as the material world around us dissolves into ether.
Respectfully, Gen Z needs to stop making up shit.
Fifteen years ago, in a 45 minute flight from Palermo to Naples in a hot July afternoon, which gives sets the scene for the average passenger and their state of mind, my ex took out Diary of a Seducer by Søren Kierkegaard. Ten minutes into the flight he had fallen asleep, the book lying by his side face down. Performative reading has been around for a while. We just called it being a bit of a twat back then.
I believe I enjoy so much visiting Paris because people are unapologetic about reading in public anywhere they happen to be. And you can tell they’re really reading because they simply get on with it, whether is for 20 minutes during their lunch break at the park or seated at a terrace with un petit café or un verre, they relish that alone time with their book. It’s refreshing to see people of all ages choosing a book instead of a screen when their on their own.
I miss that time when you’d get on a tube carriage in London and everyone would be reading One Day at the same time. A single moment of communion among strangers before each has to go on their separate ways. The sight of a familiar book can connect us to those around us without the need to say a word. Besides, does no one in London know that Callum Turner and Dua Lipa clicked after they realized they were reading the same book?
In fact, I am intent on fighting back the lack of people seen reading in public and with the first glimpses of spring already showing in London, I shall endeavor to engage in a lot more reading outside the house, performative or not. Who am I to discriminate?
I shouldn’t be too difficult as I always carry a book with me and the only reason I don’t read more outside the comfort of my humble abode is because it’s impossible to find a place that is quiet and comfortable enough and doesn’t require you to spend money just to enjoy your book. Coffee shops, one of the obvious options to retreat with a book, are the most performative of settings, at least in my neighborhood. There is no way you can concentrate when someone around you is casually discussing their open marriage arrangements over a cinnamon bun. Some people probably think that holding a book in public makes you automatically deaf.
I wonder what the Ancient Greeks would have made of this very modern tragedy that is the demise of reading in public.
I wouldn’t rule out that Zeus himself is behind the rise of the performative reading trend. If there’s someone who would use books as props if that can in any way help him lure innocent women and impregnate them when they least expect it, it’s definitely him. Which anyone who has been transfixed by the many delightful and implausible scenarios of the Metamorphoses, not only carried them around for show, would agree with.
The next time you spot a man with a tote bag, organic oat milk coffee in hand and a copy of anything by Simone de Beauvoir on full display, I suggest you run in the opposite direction if you want to avoid growing a demigod from your thigh6. The exception to this rule is Jacob Elordi, who despite being the walking image for the above performative male definition does love reading indeed and is always keen to offer interesting book recommendations whenever he is given the opportunity.
If you must by all means be impregnated, choose at least someone who has great taste in books. Men, like trends, come and go but good writing and stories stay with you forever and can nurture you back to life.
Book Challenge
Years ago I started writing down on a notebook the books I bought each month as well as the books I read, which extensive notes. This habit helped me fixed them in my memory and it’s no coincidence that I remember better books I read years ago than a few months back.
I have recovered that notebook, which contains a mix of book lists, reviews, and reading goals, all invariably unachieved. However, psychology tells us that the best way to set yourself for success is to share with people what you aim to achieve so you can be held accountable of your progress.7 Apparently so does having a goal, so to honour both World Book Day and the fact that the UK has declared 2026 The National Year of Reading, I’ve decided to set a little book challenge for the year ahead, more as an encouragement to keep on reading than as a hard target I have to hit. I’m not trying to surpass Jack Edwards and the 137 books he read last year. Reading, after all, should be a pleasure not a chore.
To make it easier on myself I have also established that one book can tick two different categories at once. This will encourage me to carry on when I face the unavoidable reading slumps that assail the modern day reader, which has more good intentions than actual time or focus.
Below are the books I will aim to read this year. Feel free to take the below as inspiration to set your own reading challenge.
My (performative) reading list for 2026
A book you own but you haven’t read
A book that was made into a movie
A book you picked solely because of the cover
A book by an author you’ve never read before
A book by an author you love
A book with a color in the title
A book set somewhere you’ve always wanted to visit
A book you started but never finished
A book with animals in it
A book with a female heroine
A book set in the summer or at sea
A book of poetry
A play
A comic book or graphic novel
A collection of essays
A memoir or biography
A book “everyone” but you has read
A book with a great first line
A book with pictures
A book from the decade you were born
A book based on a true story
A book that is more than 500 pages long
A book that can be read in a day
A banned book
A book with a number in the title
A gothic or horror classic
A romance classic
A Russian or French classic
A book about time travel
A book set on a different planet
A book mentioned in another book
The next book in a series you’ve started
A book about death or grief
A book about a villain or antihero
A book borrowed or that was given to you as a gift
A book with an ugly cover
A book that involves a bookstore
A book with an LGBTQ protagonist
A book about music
A book you love. Reread it
Abroad is an independent publication about London, living in between cultures, creativity, and being human in the age of artificial intelligence.
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As if I needed a specific reason, let alone two, to indulge in a bit of healthy book binging.
Of course if you found yourself terminally ill overnight, you may want to use your time differently, although leaving this world having read one last good book is not the worst use of one’s limited time.
Unfortunately Bridgerton Season 4 wasn’t yet available during my time of great need. In hindsight, now that I’ve finally caught up, it was for the best as otherwise I doubt I would have managed to focus on doing any reading.
And here I must admit that ,while I miss the intensity and length of the summer back home, I am grateful the milder temperatures in London keep mosquitoes at bay because they seemed to be very fond of me.
I’ve recently come across an article that argues reading shouldn’t be only for pleasure and while I agree in part and I can see where this comes from as there’s been a surge of feel good books over the years, I am also a firm believer that reading can be both a very enjoyable experience even when reading about uncomfortable topics or situations, Greek tragedies being the perfect case in point, but this probably requires its own essay.
Which is how Dionysius was born. It’s a long story.
I am going to keep track of the books I read and ideally share my progress in a future post.
Here’s to brain-melting books! Your accidental foray into Oedipus Rex made me laugh.
Oh loved everything about this, Cristina! Hilariously last year I posted or maybe restacked that photo of Bill Nighy captioned 'the dream would be doing the same thing on the table next to him' and some bloke commented surely I'd want to be sat with him talking. Point missed altogether (and also he's marked his territory with the spare book--read the outdoor seating area). And when you mentioned everyone reading the same book on the tube my brain immediately went to the Callum and Dua meet-cute so laughed out loud you'd gone the same way. My reading is WAY slower than usual this year, but I love your list and will see how many of this year's reads I can inelegantly shoehorn into your suggested categories!