Reading Dorothy Day’s autobiography, I tripped over this passage about her daughter.

She grew up knowing what she wanted, and that was to make things. She read a great deal. When she was occupied with books of biology or astronomy I knew she was happy, engrossed; but when she read fiction, I knew she was escaping, that she was not as happy as she might be. I transferred her for one brief term to a more fashionable school and here she was so miserable that she read a book a day. It was not the leisurely reading of David Copperfield or the Marylea series. It was truly an escape. So I brought her back to St. Dorothy’s, where the children took daily walks and helped in Saturday’s cleaning, where only twenty boarders and it was a family.” - from The Long Loneliness

It’s not like Day doesn’t write about enjoying novels herself, but it made me start to reexamine both my own reading past and the reading future of my kids. Was I aware of my own happiness or unhappiness? Would I accurately understand what reading means for my children? In my home, books replace television, and I think that the same “checking out” can apply to both environments. Extended engagement in each might not have the same effect on brain chemistry, but both can foster an absentness from the life that must be engaged.

Notice that Day knows what her daughter’s deepest aspirations are and because of that is able to tell the difference between a life in retreat or one in advance. What’s your take on this?