Abstract

Bayard's book appeared in 2007. Word of mouth about it probably reached me at the time, but it did not catch my attention until the day (in 2012, if I am not mistaken) that a young professor, on the verge of burnout, told me how reading it had functioned for him as a kind of therapy. Though a voracious reader, he found himself confronted by ever more recommendations for reading, some from reviewers whose suggestions were felt as obligations and sounded almost like insults. The line between a reading recommendation and an insult is very thin (the interlocutor may feel infantilized). The young professor was particularly irritated by recurrent advice to read Derrida. Must I read De la grammatologie, he asked, because it is vaguely related to the topic I am working on? Why must I quote him? And if I have not read him, must I pretend that I have?In the academic quotation economy, we very often find ourselves lying to the public, pretending we have read authors whom we have not. For a decade, the title of Bayard's book worked for me as a motto I could repeat internally whenever faced with a reading recommendation, especially when it was broad and general (I have often been advised to read Marx or Lacan, for instance, with no further indication of passages that might interest me). Inversely, when I make a recommendation, I add a little comment on Bayard's book, though until recently I have specified that I have not read it myself. I have hoped my comment would reduce the risk of my recommendations being interpreted as obligations or insults.As is the case with many books, Bayard's became important to me well before I decided to read it (in 2022). An interlocutor, reacting to my recommendation of the book without having read it, told me that the book (he had read it) was more than an antidote for academic name-dropping. It was foremost, he added, an investigation into various modes of nonreading. Apart from pure ignorance (when one does not even know that it exists), one can be familiar with a book just by learning bibliographical details and information about its genre and tradition. One can know a book by hearsay (one can speak extensively about it on the basis of remarks that one has heard). One can consult the table of contents furtively or read some pages randomly.Each mode of nonreading enables us to talk differently about a book, and in each we fill the parts of which we are ignorant with peripheral knowledge and imagination. Therefore, nonreading—active nonreading at least—can be more demanding, Bayard argues, than reading itself. Still, what happens when we talk about books that we have not read happens also when we speak about books that we have read, since we never speak of a book as such without adding what we imagine the book to be. Based on this similarity of reading and nonreading, Bayard comes to a paradoxical conclusion typical of French thinkers: each reading, he contends, from the most inattentive to the most intense, is also a form of nonreading. He misses, however, that by the same argument the inverse proposition could also be defended: what he calls nonreading is already a form of reading.During the decade between beginning to think about Bayard's book and actually reading it, I constructed what he calls a “screen book” (livre-écran)—a work of my imagination. But the book I invented was enriched by my eventually reading it. I discovered that it delivered not simply a criticism of our quoting practices but also a celebration of some forms of active nonreading. In Bayard's enthusiasm, however, I believe that he goes too far when he concludes, with Oscar Wilde among others, that it is better not to read the books we review. Often, as was my case with How to Talk about Books You Haven't Read, they turn out to be more original than our fancy is capable of imagining. Hence I have set forth in this review a reason not mentioned by Bayard in favor of discussing books one has not read: doing so may function as a self-reminder. By dint of speaking about a book, one sometimes ends up reading it.