An existential crisis about books, mortality and David Bowie

Two weeks ago, I had an existential crisis. I’d just finished reading Mary Karr’s The Art of Memoir (10/10, would recommend), which closes with a phenomenal suggested reading list—six densely packed pages with over a hundred recommendations of memoir and hybrid books.

My first response was glee: look at all these excellent books to add to my list! How delightful! I cannot wait to read them all!

My second response was guilt: I’ve got 200 unread books on my Kindle, 200 unread books in my bookcase, ten books out from the library, four next to the bed, and two I’m currently reading. I’ve also been lusting after David Bowie’s top 100 reads for a couple of years. This is much more pressure, and it’s not very kind to the books I’ve already committed to.

My third response was panic, as my thoughts spiralled and I started doing mental arithmetic to work out how long it would take me to get through my backlog, how many other books I had in mind that I wanted to read, and how many books are coming out every year that I still want to read.

But then, I was struck with a sudden, terrible, awful, very bad thought. The panic chilled to dread… What if I can’t read all the books I want to read in my lifetime before I die?

Sorry, let me put that more clearly for you.

WHAT IF I CAN’T READ ALL THE BOOKS I WANT TO READ BEFORE I DIE!?!!!??!!!1

I got out my pen. At a conservative estimate of two books per week and a remaining readable lifespan of 40 years, I can still read over 4,000 books. Based on my usual reading habits, it’s probably closer to 5,000.

I started to calm down a little at that point. That’s a lot of books.

But the sudden awareness of my mortality (is this normal for 35?) did send me hurtling down a mental pathway I hadn’t travelled before.

Until this fateful afternoon in the window seat, I'd always assumed that I’d have more than enough time to read all the books I wanted to read and write all the books I wanted to write.

But what if I don’t?

What if I die early and spend my time reading or writing emails instead of reading books, and it’s wasted, spent, rotten, and gone forever? Could I live with myself if I missed discovering beautiful ideas written by clever minds because I didn’t make enough time?

I’m finally managing to keep a reading log. I’ve been doing it in fits and starts for years, never for long. The starting date is Existential Crisis Day. I've also removed email and internet access from my phone, which has given me the mental space and time I need. I feel better now, and I've stopped having heart palpitations about unread books (although the list still feels unreasonably long and only seems to get longer, not shorter. Weird.)

Pray for my soul and all the books that need reading.

What’s your ‘what if I never got to…’ moment? Have you got space for it in your life?