Reading

My mother read us kids books. I don't remember the early ones, except the ' Madeline in Paris' and 'Curious George'. Later, a few of the last ones: "Swallows and Amazons'; 'Wind in the Willows' 'Sword in the Stone'.* Time came when it was up to me to read on my own and there was a lot of pressure to do it. When? It was still ' to bed early, lights out!'
First, I remember reading 'Moby Dick" under the covers with a flash light. I set myself to read at least one chapter a night, kind of forced myself to do it: 'I'll show them'. I got absorbed into it, I must of been disappointed when I finished, not having Moby Dick to read every night. Back then it was was a 'great adventure', in was only decades later that I came to understand the breadth and depths of it.
I suppose after that I go into the sea adventures of C.S. Forester, the Hornblower series, every one. but this wasn't the 'adult reading' I was seemingly supposed to doing though by that time think my patent's stopped paying attention to what I read, as long as there was a book around in my bedroom, if they happened to drop by.
I can't remember when it was I started browsing seriously in my parent's library. Certain parts of it had the aura of being 'out-of-bounds' like in my Dad's study. The first book I remember 'sneaking' was Kerouac's 'The Subterraneans', I had probably heard something about 'Beatniks' on TV. I didn't get all that much of it but for some reason becoming a Beat seemed a good aspiration, by comparison to growing up, being normal and getting a job. I felt a lot affliction in my life- from many directions, as 14 and 15 year olds sometimes do, so my 'pretend life' was 'out of the world'. What to make of Jesus Christ, what to make of the "Kinsey Report' which I saw on one of my Dad's bookshelves ( I heard about that in the news too)?Not much in it for a kid really though much later when I had kids of my own I read all about it.
The book that really got a gripe on me was 'The Basic Writings of Sigmund Freud", translated by Brill, Modern Library Edition, 1938; probably something my Dad got when he was studying for his degree in clinical psychology,. I still got it, his signature is on the first page after the cover: Judson T. Shaplin. May be my mother read it too when she did that study of witchcraft, maybe hoping to get into a course at Harvard. Not a mark in it though, and she marked all her books to beat hell.
Later in life I did get some 'counseling' on several occasions, even had a real psychiatrist. They always said they weren't Freudians. Really? I never said anything about it though. It's just something they didn't want to see in the themselves. Something they thought they could get by without, hoping for some "Easy Street' or 'Royal Road', cleared of the confusing, ambiguous and painful obstructions in the 'pursuit of happiness.'



*I recall King Arthur now. "Brier Rabbit" and "Little Black Sambo' and the "Jungle Books', 'Tom Sawyer', 'Huckleberry Finn', Huck's Dad was kind of scary.