More specifically, why read books? Why do I even ask this? If you follow this blog, you’re likely an avid reader, of darn near everything. I still want to offer some reasons. For information, of course. For entertainment, naturally. But also:
For therapy. A friend of mine was anxiously awaiting the results of a biopsy. She discovered Whitethorn Woods, by Maeve Binchy. This tale of basically decent people, being there for each other and facing life’s difficulties, gave her hope and emotional soothing during the dark hours of night. (The biopsy showed only benignity.)
For healing. This is especially true of memoir, especially if you are recovering from similar experiences to what the writer has endured and survived. But when my wonderful husband died, I found great comfort in Being Mortal by Atul Gawande. While not a memoir, it related the stories of many other people facing end of life issues. It was comforting to me to feel that connection to every other human being, as we all do, or will, face this inevitable end.
For company: There’s that saying, “Book lovers never go to bed alone.” I can honestly say, I never have.