A casual observer of the book-club scene could be fooled into thinking that this summer was a hard one for the nation's leisure readers. Late in spring, Oprah's club shuttered, stranding publishers in what promises to be a long shoal of short print runs and offering the rest of us one literary arbiter fewer to love or hate. Borders, which ran a sort of book group of its own, shut down stores, too, after creditors refused a buyout offer from a book-club mega-company. Could reading groups be losing their sway in our culture? On one hand, this is a reasonable question; on the other, it's like asking whether the United States should worry about being out-powered by Belgium. More than 5 million adults are thought to be in reading groups, not counting online clubs, and a number of those adults have a noticeable missionary bent: If Oprah didn't get you onboard, there's a good chance that your neighbor with a Thursday group will have you marking up Love in the Time of Cholera before summer is through.
To point out that a good part of this country attends book clubs is not necessarily to establish that America is crazy about books. Like scheduling a business lunch or following a date upstairs for coffee, book-clubbing is fraught with ulterior motives. For one thing, there is usually dessert. The Book Club Cookbookrecommends discussing Michael Chabon's Pulitzer-winning novel in the company of three good-sized cocoa-cinnamon babkas. Some clubs look like offerings to the gods of hyperglycemia, their altars laden with warm brownies, sweet zucchini bread, homemade cupcakes, and—just as inevitably—a gross of Oreos dumped on a paper plate by someone who has long since fled the scene. (This packaged-food stealth bomber is the Boo Radley of book clubs, cropping up when all eyes are averted to deposit curious wares: Once, at a club I visited, someone had planted a large, gaping carton of KFC in the middle of a food spread, where it stood untouched through the discussion like some occult talisman.) Alcohol tends to be on offer, which is another way of saying that book-clubbing is not something to undergo with people you find deeply boorish. Or, also, people you like too much: Parents of small children have been known to linger long after the coffee goes cold, running up their sitters' clocks to chase an extra, guilty hour of unencumbered social time. For a pursuit decked out in the stiff raiment of virtue, clubbing is extraordinarily enabling of vice.
It's also—and if I were a certain kind of book-clubber, I might here take out my highlighter to flag this "major theme" of the pastime—marked by a strange ambivalence on what to read. Where one might expect club-goers to be fire-in-the-belly champions of a literary agenda, people who harbor strong feelings about Djuna Barnes and Henri Barbusse and who keep at least one crumbling, grease-stained copy of The Rise of the Novelin range of their nightstands, many book-clubbers (most book-clubbers?) seem not to care too much what passes through their literary gullets. One New York club's reading list includes Infinite Jest, the Hunger Games series, the first Dexter novel, and Don Quixote. The lineup of another in Washington state includes a novel by Tracy Chevalier, a memoir by Ruth Reichl, and a biography of Cornelius Vanderbilt. Tossing darts across a Barnes & Noble could hardly produce a more scattershot list.
All of this raises questions. If the literary machinations of book clubs are somewhat incidental, it is unclear why they—more than poker evenings, knitting circles, movie nights, or any other premise for adult group leisure—claim such swaths of after-hours time. Book clubs are not the province of a single demographic. They don't favor leftist intellectuals or far-right thinkers. There are clubs about young-adult novels, governmental works by Plato, lesbian literature, science fiction. There are clubs devoted to food books and to the Bible. Men and women both take part in book clubs—and have since a time when men's and women's social roles were thought to be entirely dissimilar. What is it about the idea of joining a reading group that draws in such a broad American cross-section?
The answer to that question may have to do less with the nature of book clubs than with the nurture of readers who join them. Book-clubbing gives off a fructuous scent of aspiration. It has from the start. Early clubs served largely as a domestic and populist alternative to higher education, then comparatively hard to come by. Eventually, though, this balance shifted, and clubs started to pull toward the middle of the cultural spectrum—fleeing both the tight walls of scholarship and the low ceiling of mainstream entertainment. What started as a portal of cultural incursion is, today, a place for cultural retreat.
Although the exact origins of American book-clubbing are arguable—talking about texts in private is as old as history itself—the modern domestic book group comes most directly from a push for women's intellectual autonomy. Beginning in the mid-18th century in England, motivated women of means and leisure began hosting salons for each other at home, inviting (male) luminaries of the day over to serve as keynote guests. These salon-goers came to be called "bluestockings," supposedly after one popular guest's signature garment; by 1863, across the pond, The New American Cyclopaedia was using the term as a catchall descriptor for "pedantic or ridiculously literary ladies." The first modern-style reading groups emerged out of this "ridiculously" ambitious culture of self-education, taking form as refuges for women who wanted to get ahead and cultivate their minds outside an educational system to which they had no proper access.
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