We read for various reasons, none wrong. For diversion – or immersion; to think – or not; to be au courant or hors de concours; whet or mollify our wits. Some read to flee, others to return – toward inner or outer space.

As a student I read for erudition, to impress those I hoped to wow, woo, or both. Later, alone in a long marriage, I read for solace and society – and for instruction in expression. Writers are teachers by nature, for they say – not “in other words.” Some writers are didactic – this is how to do it; others diffident – this is how it might be done. Aspiring writers try on tactics like outfits for the best fit.

These days, happy in life and wife (and dog), stuck in my style, I read for companionship, to get to know a few souls better, to amble and converse with. I read for the same reason I write – to pal – because my friends are far (or dead) and my avidity for affinities limitless. People are why I live: the better I know them, the better my life.

To this end I read writers more than their books. Their books, of course – that’s what they’ve left us – but also their histories, relations, fans, critics, correspondence, anecdotes: call it “reading around.” Google’s my trusty helper here, each article spidering into a dozen others.

I read around till I need a break from an acquaintance or curiosity teases me elsewhere. Often I resume conversations later – I’m always returning to Hawthorne and Henry James, for example. Sometimes I develop allergies to writers once admired and that’s that. Some writers deepen with familiarity, others sadly shrink into one-note Johnnies or wizards riding their broom-schticks. Sometimes I share my reactions here, more often not, especially when disappointments. I began my writing career as a critic pricking reputations to enhance my own. Older, I’ve grown merciful, needing mercy, sparing my invective for more dire threats.

Reading around I engage in colloquies that might seem crazy from afar. I may question a writer’s choices: What were you thinking! Or inordinately gush: I knew this poem was good but not that good! I cross-examine my responses to understand them – and myself. Who we are is how we feel. I’m forever trying to know myself better.

I’ve no system reading around, no plans to report on my escapades, though sometimes that happens, as it did for Montaigne and Spinoza. I’m skittish orating about an author because I’m no expert and in this epoch of specialization amateurs are assailed. I never say how others should respond, only how I did. On that I am an expert.

Reading around is a luxury of retirement, when I have time, yet it precludes other explorations. I devote almost no time to contemporary or easy authors. This is preference, not arrogance. No doubt there’s plenty of current talent as there are cool folks, but I’m done with the new. I’ve too little time for souls I know to be precious.

At present I’m mucking around with Robert Frost, a poet I thought I knew and turns out I know hardly at all. He’s amazing and annoying me, both more and less than I recalled. I can recite at least four of his poems by heart but where do they fit – in their moment and his career? And why are they surrounded by so much that moves me to muttering, not admiration? Have you read his little prose pieces about poultry farming? Utterly charming – and news to me. That’s the kind of scintillance you might happen on reading around.