A decade ago, I wrote a column asking readers to recommend books to revive my interest in reading serious novels. And two things happened:
First, readers proved amazing and generous in their responses. Friends showed up at my house with their favorite novels and brought them to parties I attended. Suggestions and comments from more than 100 people became fodder for an online conversation and a second column.
Second, I was invited to join a monthly book club, a surprise that would become a happy addition to my life. Since then, our club has read more than 100 novels — not bad for a guy whose reading table was once littered with books on politics, computers and travel (and not a novel in sight).
We've read old and new novels, classic and contemporary, the great and the not-so-great — from Cervantes' “Don Quixote” to Tolstoy's “Anna Karenina” to Conrad's “Heart of Darkness,” from Philip Roth's “American Pastoral” to Julian Barnes' “The Sense of an Ending” to Donna Tartt's “The Goldfinch.”
Not all of these books were universally praised. But every book kickstarted conversations about the past and present, about how people live and about how novels make us think about our own lives.
In fiction, we are asked to consider the human condition in all its forms — the meaning of love or beauty or courage or madness, the politics of race or gender or class, the context of time and place.
These provoke the kind of thoughtful, direct, serious and occasionally irreverent conversations that seldom happen in the rush of everyday life.
I should mention that we are a rare species — an all-male book club. Some suspected the group wouldn't survive the members' competitive impulses, but here we are.
My original column focused on the decline of reading among Americans, as measured in a 2002 survey by the National Endowment for the Arts.