To read or not to read?

It’s 5pm and I’m standing on a packed, unmoving train, somewhere between Swindon and Bristol Parkway, dodging questionable armpits and trying my best to get used to the sardine way of life. The chorus of coughing from the carriage is rapidly becoming a cacophony; the conductor makes a garbled announcement. Outside, fields upon fields of grey, a dreary, flat landscape with nothing to inspire. My spotify offline playlist has been sorely disappointing and, believe it or not, there are only so many Instagram reels a person can consume. 

I glance at the rucksack at my feet. It contains a copy of The Ghost Ship by Kate Mosse, the book I’m reading at the moment. 

Don’t do it, a voice whispers. You’ll be judged, ostracised. You’ll have no choice but to throw yourself off the train. 

That’s slightly ridiculous, I think. Throw myself off a stationary train? It can’t get sadder than that. What’s more, I surely couldn’t get more bored than I am now. Desperate times call for desperate measures. 

Haven’t you ever heard of being performative? the voice says, growing more snarky by the minute. Because that’s what you’ll be. 

It’s a classic battle of wills which I’ve been experiencing lately. To read or not to read, in public? The act has become something of a statement, a declaration that I, with my broken-in paperback, am far superior to all those around me scrolling on their phones or listening to music. What’s more, taking out the other book in my bag, a Latin text I need to read for my course, would be tantamount to laughing in my fellow passengers’ faces. There’s even a question as to whether I am actually reading at all, or just putting on a show for the people around me, who surely can’t have anything better to do than feel threatened by my taste. 

There is inevitably an element of the echo-chamber to this idea. I can’t imagine that people who don’t use the embarrassment-mongering machine that is social media are bothered by how it might appear when the person next to them whips out their edition of The Bell Jar at the bus stop. Moreover, there have definitely been stranger scenes on public transport, and, as long as you’re not performing a dramatic recital of your book, it’s about the least offensive activity you could be doing. 

Then there’s the argument that reading, like scrolling TikTok, is essentially another form of escapism: so why should we judge one more harshly than the other? The point is to transport yourself somewhere else that’s not the cramped environment of a train, to enjoy yourself in a world that’s not your own, but which can be for a brief moment in time. To say that reading is something only for the library, or for the confines of your own home, is to ignore the protean power it has. Reading only in these spaces makes the hobby a private, secretive thing, when, arguably, one of the great things about literature is its connective ability: seeing what other people are reading, and discussing it with them. Or, at the very least, stifling a laugh when the cover of Fifty Shades of Grey peeks up at you from the gap in a duffle bag. Perhaps I’m just nosy, but reading has both an intimate and a social element. 

Of course, there are pretenders out there. The trend of spotting the male manipulator reading in public has become ubiquitous; the criteria has been honed to a tee, and we are warned to watch out for moustache-sporting men reading feminist literature, carrying a tote bag and possibly smoking. Presumably the tote bag is where he conceals his other feminist novels, to keep a rotation going and attract different people, some suggest. It’s possible, though, that he actually does enjoy a bit of Simone de Beauvoir. We’ll never know. And therein lies the third element of reading: its mystery.