Guest Review: The art of almost reading

If you were to look at my nightstand right now, you would learn two things very quickly. 

First, I have excellent taste in books. 

Second, I am incredibly good at almost reading them. 

There’s a stack — not decorative, not curated, just a working pile of good intentions. On any given night, it includes “Where the Deer and the Antelope Play,” “Lose Well,” “The Perilous Adventures of the Cowboy King” and, somewhat optimistically, “Bag of Bones.” 

It’s still on the nightstand. 

I bought “Bag of Bones” after hearing it had been banned in some Utah schools. There’s something about being told not to read something that makes it feel more necessary. Not urgent, necessarily, but important in a quieter, more stubborn way. 

I haven’t finished it. 

But it’s still on the nightstand. 

I come by that honestly. Both of my parents were librarians at different points in their lives. Books weren’t decoration in our house. They were how you learned things. How you understood people. How you made sense of the world. How you escaped. 

My dad, especially, read with purpose. He had stacks too, but his were finished, annotated, underlined. He had a particular interest in Theodore Roosevelt, the plight of the Boston Red Sox and the Douglas DC-3. I’m certain every book ever written about these subjects passed through our house at some point, each one read cover to cover, notes taken, opinions formed. 

He finished books to understand the world. 

I start them to keep up with it. 

Somewhere in my stack is a worn copy of “Hatchet.” I read it countless times growing up, fully convinced I could survive in the wilderness if the moment ever called for it. Back then, finishing a book felt inevitable. You started, you finished, you moved on. 

Now, it’s different. 

Not worse. Just … fuller. 

There are more tabs open these days. More things pulling for your attention. College turns into careers. Deadlines into responsibilities. The list of things to finish gets longer and the time to finish them gets shorter. 

So sometimes, things stay in progress. Still on the nightstand. And yet, every once in a while, one sticks. 

For me this year, that was “Big Two-Hearted River,” a short story by Ernest Hemingway written in 1925. 

North of Sun Valley, Idaho, up in the Sawtooth Range, there are stretches of water that don’t ask much of you. Small streams. Cold water. The kind of place where you cast, wait and hope for tight lines, but you’re just as content if nothing bites. 

You stand there anyway. You listen to the water move. You stay longer than you planned. This read felt like that. 

If you’ve spent any time with Hemingway, you know the rhythm. Sparse. Deliberate. Nothing wasted. The kind of writing and the kind of place that reminds you not everything meaningful needs to be rushed to completion to matter. 

I finished that one. Not because I set out to but because I didn’t feel the need to hurry. 

That same feeling is what keeps me coming back to “Where the Deer and the Antelope Play.” Nick Offerman — yes, Ron Swanson — writes like someone who understands that paying attention is sometimes more important than making progress. A chapter here, a few pages there. It lingers. 

And then there’s “Lose Well.” Chris Gethard — whose work, from his public access variety show to “Beautiful/Anonymous” podcast, leans into something honest: Most of life is trial and error. Trying, missing, adjusting, trying again. Not always clean. Not always finished. 

I didn’t finish that one either. But I didn’t need to. Which is where I’ve landed. 

We put a lot of emphasis on finishing. Finishing school, finishing projects and finishing strong. There’s value in that. There’s pride in seeing something through. 

But not everything meaningful needs to be completed to matter. 

Sometimes, the value is in what you carry with you. A sentence. An idea. A shift in perspective. Something small that stays, even if the bookmark never makes it to the last page. 

Sometimes, it’s enough that it’s still on the nightstand. 

Which brings me, inevitably, to “Oh, the Places You’ll Go!” 

For the record, I have finished this one. 

It turns out I can finish books. They’re just usually about 50 pages long and written for people much wiser than they get credit for. 

It’s quoted often this time of year and for good reason. Not because it promises a straight path but because it makes room for the stalls. The in-between places. The moments where progress doesn’t look like progress at all. 

And still, you keep going. 

I’ve said this enough that it’s followed me around a bit, but I mean it every time: 

I would challenge you … 

Not to finish everything. That’s not realistic. And it’s not really the point. 

But to pick one thing. One book, one project, one idea you’ve been carrying and see it through. Not quickly. Not perfectly. Just intentionally. 

I’m planning to do the same. 

Because as much as I believe not everything needs to be completed to matter, some things are worth finishing. 

So no, I didn’t finish most of these books. They’re still on the nightstand.  

But maybe one of them won’t be for much longer. 

John Zsiray is a 2005 graduate of Utah State University who writes with good intentions and a growing stack of almost-finished books on his nightstand. He still believes one more fish — and one more chapter — are within reach.

— john.zsiray@usu.edu