Bernard Michael Rochford On Reading Books Slowly (and Sometimes Not at All)

I used to read with purpose.

In my working years, reading meant textbooks, case studies, and articles printed from questionable medical journals that may or may not have been peer-reviewed. I had a bookshelf that looked respectable but mostly gathered dust because, truth be told, I never had the time. Reading was functional. Practical. Something to help me better understand a condition or explain a treatment more clearly to a patient.

Now? Now I read whatever I want. Slowly. Happily. Often with crumbs on the page and tea rings on the margins.

There’s a deep kind of pleasure in reading for no other reason than curiosity. No test at the end. No bullet points to summarise. No one asking, “So what’s the takeaway?” The takeaway is that I sat in a chair and let someone else do the talking for a while.

The Joy of Reading at My Own Pace

People these days talk about reading goals. Ten books a month. Fifty a year. They build spreadsheets and colour-coded trackers. I admire the enthusiasm, but Bernard Michael Rochford is not racing anyone to the final page.

Some books take me weeks. Some I reread slowly, underlining phrases like I’m discovering treasure. Some I fall asleep with on my chest after just five pages, which I consider a compliment to the book, not a failure on my part.

I’ll admit, I’ve become a bit of a library lurker. The local librarian knows me by name and temperament. I browse the shelves the way some people browse wine labels—judging entirely by the cover, the title, the promise of something new and comforting.

Books I Pretend I’ve Read (But Haven’t)

We all have them. Mine include Moby Dick, Ulysses, and anything where a character has a name longer than six syllables or a plot that jumps between centuries without warning.

Once, a younger neighbour asked if I’d read Infinite Jest. I told him I had—it just wasn’t on paper. I’d read about it, listened to podcasts discussing it, and decided that was enough intellectual adjacency for me.

There’s no shame in not finishing a book. Not every story is meant for every season of your life. Some books I started in my forties now make sense in my sixties. Some I’ll never return to, and that’s perfectly fine. The unfinished stack beside my reading chair doesn’t mock me—it waits patiently.

Books as Company

Books have become a kind of companionship for me. They don’t demand conversation. They don’t interrupt. They sit quietly, offering what they have with no hard feelings if I put them down.

I’ve come to love essays and short stories—small, perfectly formed thoughts I can hold in my hand and digest in a single sitting. I like books with bite-sized wisdom. I also like books with no wisdom at all—just a good yarn, a loveable fool, or a plot twist that makes me mutter “Well I didn’t see that coming” to no one in particular.

Sometimes I read aloud to myself. Not for comprehension, just for rhythm. It’s like music. The words have a tempo, and I like letting them fill the room.

My Bookmark Is a Grocery Receipt

I don’t own fancy bookmarks. I use what’s nearby—receipts, envelopes, leaves. One book has a train ticket from 2006 marking page 84, which I haven’t reached yet. I think I keep it there more for the ticket than the page.

Reading has become less about finishing and more about lingering. I reread paragraphs because they feel good. I stop midway through a chapter because the kettle boiled and I decided to sit outside instead.

That’s the thing about books—they wait. Unlike everything else in modern life, they don’t mind if you disappear for a while.

Final Thoughts from the Reading Chair

If you asked me today what I’m reading, I might give you five different answers depending on the room I’m in. Each one half-read, half-loved, entirely unhurried.

In retirement, time no longer presses against me. And in that freedom, reading has become a joy I never expected—a quiet ritual that doesn’t demand achievement, just attention.

So if you see me on a park bench, reading a battered copy of something with a biscuit tucked into the back flap, that’s me, Bernard Michael Rochford, indulging in the luxury of a chapter at a time, and absolutely no rush to reach “The End."