RUINED BY READING

We generally think of potboilers as knocked-off, hack novels meant to bring in some cash and attention (``keep the pot boiling'') until the author can come up with another ``real'' book. How unfortunate, then, to have the word ``potboiler'' occur to one while reading Scwartz's memoir of her life as a reader. Schwartz (The Fatigue Artist, 1995, etc.) is known as a novelist whose strong, fiercely felt prose—whose good prose- -often fails to cohere in a fully realized novelistic framework. This memoir, alas, is no different. Reading is a great subject. Not nearly enough books or essays (outside academia, anyway) have been devoted to it, and certainly very few have achieved the literary immortality of, say, Walter Benjamin's essay ``Unpacking My Library.'' Because of this, there is a temptation here to be uncritical and lap up the not-insignificant charms of Ruined by Reading—as Schwartz (in a narrative ranging from childhood to success as an author) laps up Heidi, A Little Princess, Martin Pippin in the Daisy Field, etc. The problem is that very little of enduring satisfaction results. Schwartz's reminiscences are centered largely on her child and teenage self—and childhood can be a breeding ground for adult sentimentality and excess. The book will have resonances for many readers—but mainly short- lived ones. Why? Haste (or a sense of it, anyway). Self- indulgence. The good stuff is terrific—as when the college-age Schwartz recommends Kafka to her parents, then receives a phone call from her father reporting a distinct difference in their readings and demanding to know what The Trial was really about. ``My heart leaped,'' she writes. ``This was exactly what I wanted. We should theorize this way every waking hour.'' Best for an unsophisticated audience of book-lovers: The sophisticates may feel that they could have done it better.