Right. I was mapping the various degrees of ECRS. I already talked at length about the Omnivorous Serial (O.S.). Now let’s confront a more serious and socially destabilizing form of ECRS: the Library Hater (L.H.). The L.H. is a procrastinator, and doesn’t seem to realize that checking out thirty books at the same time is conducive to massive heartburn and sleepless nights. The L.H starts reading the book he/she thinks is the less appealing, reserving the favorite authors for last. (The same way you, gentle reader from Rome, leave the top of the rosetta *bread for the last bite. The examples vary accordingly to regions, states, and whole countries. Today I felt nostalgic. And I have always been partial to a freshly baked rosetta with mortadella.) Woolgathering aside and coming back to more serious thoughts, what happens next to the naïve reader is that (few weeks after in real life, but just seconds for the L.H.) the Public Library sends a courtesy mail asking for the books back. The procrastinator waits until the eleventh hour, and few minutes after that, to renew the lease of the books, and discovers (dramatic music playing) that it isn’t possible. Someone else has requested the same books (how did they dare!—Eddie Izzard’s voice in the background) and therefore the L.H must release them. Several things occur at once: the L.H curses the Public Library and its unfair policies. He/she tries to read as many pages as possible to reach the end of the chapter. Then the L.H. has a sudden and violent bout of Tourette (due to the realization that the story that has sucked big time until three pages ago has finally become interesting). The L.H. tries a last desperate effort to check if pressing again the renew button of the Public Library’s web site will change the status of the books. No. It doesn’t. Finally the L.H put the books inside several plastic bags (normally it rains outside and the books could get all mushy and sad) and drives to the place where he/she normally gets his/her fix (the same Public Library that has been smitten to crumbles few minutes before). The ordeal is repeated in the same order as soon as the Public Library’s website acknowledges that it has received the books, and the L.H requests the same titles again. The moral of the story is that the L.H. never reads the novels he/she really wanted to read in the first place, since they are always buried under a whole stack of other books. You know what they say about the definition of madness…
*Typical Roman bread looking more like a turtle than a rose. Deliciously hollow inside. Fill it as your heart desires.
The ECReader’s life is hell on heart. Nobody can really understand the horrors he/she is forced to endure every day. The
It has just been brought to my attention that there is a category of ECReaders who suffer from painful relapses in the awful realm of quotidianity. (I am aware that the word “quotidianity” doesn’t exist in English—at least in the opinion of the Oxford Dictionary, among others—but I found the notion offending, and being the just person that I am, I couldn’t let it pass. In case you are wondering “quotidianity” means regarding the uninteresting daily life.”) I have also decided that the term ECRS’s for excessive compulsive readers wasn’t correct, and therefore I changed it in ECReaders. But I am digressing. My original intention was to examine the brutal world of all the poor ECReaders who are forced to stop reading. It is cruel and unusual. As if we could stop being who we are. We are born this way. There are no rehabilitation camps for us (although it seems that electric shock has been used to cure other “syndromes” with fairly good results. The loss of short term memories seems a good trade off in the opinion of a certain part of American society. But none of the victims…I meant subjects…has commented on the matter). A recent testimony of an ex-ECReader, who wishes to remain anonymous (but we are going to call her “I Wish I Could Girl”, for the sake of humanizing the subject), brought me to tears. The poor being doesn’t have time to read due to social circumstances generally known as offspring of the male gender. There are no words eloquent enough to express the agony of I Wish I Could Girl. We are with you. Don’t give up. The ECRS Foundation will organize a parade to raise donations (in form of babysitting hours) to help the cause of all the I Wish I Could Girls in the world. You are not alone. Meanwhile drink some tea.
I read between books. Beside my bed there is a stack of books fresh from the Library. The stack is always there. I keep adding a book as soon as I finish reading one. If I am traveling I check if my Kindle is charged every five minutes. It’s called Excessive Compulsive Reading Syndrome (ECRS). ECRS’s are part addicts, part romantics, and one hundred percent certified detached from reality. There is no literature about this syndrome, mostly because I just invented it, and also because I didn’t have time to write about it. I intend to rectify this slight. ECRS is not fatal, but is not curable either. Furthermore, significant others of ECRS’s will suffer along their houses, offspring, and pets, because they are not: knights in shining armors, manors, geniuses, mythological creatures. It is proved (by my intensive study on the subject) that buying flowers, chocolates, strings of black pearls, can help the ECRS’s in connecting with this plane of existence, otherwise known as nowadays Earth.
Just recently (as in right now I am writing it) it has been also suggested that breakfasts in bed, romantic gateways in Cancun, sensual courtships, and the occasional love letter, can improve the ECRS’s symptoms. Avoid at all costs to approach the ECRS’s when the time is not right (it changes every month if the patient is not regular). Soothing words, warm chocolate, and skillful massages, will help if, having discarded the professional warning, the contact has already happened. When in doubt administer freshly brewed tea at regular intervals. Beware of the times when the Library Express is under maintenance and Saturn is in opposition . Just run away.