In the 150 some-odd years since, though, tsundoku has assumed a more positive connotation. The term originated in the 19th century to chastise teachers who never seemed to read the books they owned, and shares some cross-cultural DNA with “bibliomania,” which was tossed around in England at a similar time to describe obsessive book-collectors. What kind of nonsense philosophy is that? It’s actually rooted in a Japanese practice called tsundoku, which is an efficient portmanteau of the words tsunde-oku (letting things pile up) and dukosho (reading books). Simply surrounding yourself with novels, memoirs and non-fiction profiles appears to convey positive and lasting effects, even if they end up piled high and caked in dust. Actually reading books is a great idea (even if the book is Captain Underpants and the Attack of the Talking Toilets), but there’s also legitimate value in the act of acquiring and potentially never reading them. We know we could’ve carved out some reading time at some point, but we never did…so we must be horrible people. Whenever we spot our neglected novels in our periphery, we’d rather look away. This song and dance typically engenders the same sort of shame that accompanies a month of only using one’s gym membership two or three times. Our reading lists are too ambitious (finishing two books a month, a fairly common goal for self-professed readers, is now twice the national average!), our spontaneous moseys around bookstores are too expensive, and our shelves, nightstands and desks are too cluttered as a result. Still, the figures illustrate an age-old trend among book-buyers: we tend to bite off more than we can chew. It makes sense that it was a bit easier to find reading time when only half of the country’s adults had any use for the internet, and perhaps we can all be excused for falling short of our reading goals in 20, as COVID stressors mounted and remote work pushed email exchanges later and later into the night. And way back in 1999, we were tackling 18.5 tomes a year.
American readers either finished or got “part of the way through” an average of 12.6 books in 2021, according to Literary Hub, yet were hovering up around 15.6 in 2016.
Unsurprisingly, a bunch of us recommitted to our reading routines during the pandemic, and spent the necessary cash to make sure we were digging into the day’s newest and most exciting titles.ĭid we actually read them, though? It doesn’t look like it. That’s really saying something, considering 2020 already outpaced 2019 by 8%.
Print book sales took a giant leap in 2021, outpacing 2020 totals by 9%.
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