For some people, (ugh okay, me), reading does offer a self-respectable escape from the fear of mediocrity, at least temporarily. The moment I hold one thousand pages of limited edition hardbound classic written by a certain long deceased individual with exotic name, my heart would palpitate in anticipation of how smart I would be once I finished it. Not to mention the chance to impress people with the hardship one have to go through as can be proven by one well-memorized quote or two.

Except.

That I eventually don't finish the book. Or, I don't understand it. Or, I completely forgot what it is all about once I finished it. A violent wake up from a bookworm's wet dream that leaves me with nothing but smelly underwear to clean.

If anything, reading does make me feel less smarter most of the time. Sometimes because I just don't get it, and when I do get it, it is because I find the cleverness of the writer to be unbearably enviable. Fortunately, every once in about a hundred and ten years, there might be one book that is genuinely amusing that it is almost as enjoyable as one nice afternoon of senseless gossip over a cup of hot coffee.

So, why reading at all?

Some people don't just go gossiping senselessly too much. As simple as that.