by Sarah Statz Cords

And no, I’m not really referring to the holiday season, also known as the month when I usually end up consuming my own body weight in cookies and fudge.

I’m talking about the end of the year “Best Books” lists. Have you seen some of these? If not, consider checking out the list of lists at the Largehearted Boy blog, or the compilations over at EarlyWord.

Of course it’s nice that all of these people are putting such effort into making book lists for us. But what do they mean, really? Although traditionally I have been a fan of these types of lists, I think I’m starting to turn on them just a bit.* A defining moment hit this week when I found Nick Reding’s nonfiction title Methland: The Death and Life of an American Small Town on the New York Times Notable book list. I’ve read this book, and I actually did think it was very interesting. But when I talked about it with other readers, several of them (who were actually from Iowa) pointed out factual discrepancies in his text. I’m not trying to pick on Nick Reding, here. But I guess what I’m saying is, if even the New York Times can’t be bothered to question whether or not a book may have needed a little more fact-checking, can I really be bothered to trust their very subjective “best” categorization?

What do you think of these lists?

*I’m also annoyed all these lists come out at a time of year when I have less time for reading. How about waiting on them a bit and putting them out in January? Or maybe June, right before the summer reading season?

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By Cindy Orr

I’ve been researching early libraries and how librarians felt about reading and readers’ advisory service, for a presentation I’ll be giving next month in Albany. I came across an article written in 1886 by F. B. Perkins of the Boston Public Library. It’s called “How To Make Town Libraries Successful.”

Here are a few excerpts that caught my eye:

“The first mistake likely to be made in establishing a public library is choosing books of too thoughtful or solid a character. It is vain to go on the principle of collecting books that people ought to read, and afterwards trying to coax them to read them.”

That thought still holds up pretty well today, right? But he goes on:

“The only practical method is to begin by supplying books that people already want to read, and afterwards to do whatever shall be found possible to elevate their reading tastes and habits.”

This is the Elevation of Taste Theory, which librarians had pretty much given up within 20 years or so when it turned out not to work. People read what they want to read, and thinking you will pull them up to the higher levels of great literature is a lost cause in most cases.

And he tops it all off with the sentiment that a patron should know he is being unreasonable:

“if I plague the librarian by trying to make him (or her) pick out books for me instead of doing it myself.”

Well, guess he wasn’t much of a readers’ advisor after all.

But then there’s this:

“A perfect librarian is bound to be courteous and kind, attentive and accommodating, not only to the polite and considerate, but also to the evil and the unthankful.”

So maybe he was crabby, but it sounds like he tried to control himself at least.

And there you have it…a quick look back to a library of 1886.

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By Cindy Orr

“Sometime late last year — I don’t remember when, exactly — I noticed I was having trouble sitting down to read.”

So begins an article by LA Times Book Editor David Ulin. This is obviously a situation that is shocking to ponder, since it’s his job to read books. Is he right? The problem as he describes it, is that we are over-networked now, and that we face constant interruptions — interruptions which may quite often be trivial.

You sit down to read and someone texts you a message. You stop and answer, put the phone down and get back to your book and then they respond. You find yourself trying to read in snatches of time here and there — while standing in line, or on the bus, or maybe a quick chapter between chores. You’re reading at night, and someone from work decides they want to “touch base” before tomorrow’s meeting.

But books, as Ulin sees them, require that we slow down and immerse ourselves — and that seems to get harder and harder as we attempt to live always-available lives.

We need to work to find that quiet space. Have you been able to find it anywhere except in the bathtub or in bed just before sleep? Do you have any advice for the rest of us?

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