What exactly is a silent reading party, some sort of event planned by an extrovert as a ploy to not be alone? That was the first question I had about this monthly San Francisco event that I read about on Facebook. The event page simply instructs to “bring a book to read in absolute silence.”
Absolute. That got me. Not “read in quiet” or “read in peace,” but “read in absolute silence.” Not one single sound.
What if I were to get a tickle in my throat? Or get the nervous giggles? Suppose I farted, and everyone had to bookmark their pages and evacuate the room in silence? And then there was the book choice to consider. What type of literature did one bring to such an affair?
I was determined to find out and RSVP’d yes. Then I took a look at the book collection next to my bed, struggling with my approach. I understood that your book says more about you than, well, you say about yourself at a silent reading party, because you’re not going to be saying anything at all.
I could bring The Most of Nora Ephron — 600 pages of everything she’s ever written — but deemed it too heavy to carry on public transit. There was Joan Didion, but that seemed too pretentious. I could really be entertained by The Complete Illustrated Kama Sutra but figured that wasn’t appropriate if silent children were present at the silent party.
I ended up choosing Americanah, an important novel by Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie about love, race and immigration, which I had abandoned during my summer spent in Berlin, reading it at a nude lake and dog-earring it every couple of pages to stare at penises and boobs through my sunglasses as politely and non-pervertedly as possible.
On the evening of the event, I made my way to the Haight and followed a couple into the quiet event space in the Bindery. I thought I may be welcome by a door greeter, someone to break the silence and say at least the word “hello,” but no such luck. I was as nervous as if I was going on a first date and meeting the person in a crowded bar — only this situation was worse, with no noise to hide behind.
Someone had spoken (me), and the pack didn’t like it. It felt as if all 40 people halted their reading to look up at me — the strange vocal creature in overalls disturbing their silence.
About 40 people filled the rectangular space, spread out sitting in various positions — cross-legged on the floor, propped up chairs, slouched on a wooden platform — all gazing down into their own world in their lap (that would be their books, not their genitals).
I felt a (not so) mild panic rise within me. My eyes moved around the room quickly, looking for an empty seat. I spotted a small space on a raised platform in the front of the room, blocked by an older woman. I asked her if I could please sneak behind her to clumsily climb up the platform while everyone stared at my ass.
“Do you mind if I sit behind you?” I asked quietly.
Someone had spoken (me), and the pack didn’t like it. It felt as if all 40 people halted their reading to look up at me — the strange vocal creature in overalls disturbing their silence.
My cheeks got hot, and I knew I’d turned that terrible cooked-shrimp color, and I just wanted somewhere to sit and silently read my book. The woman scooted over one inch, then two inches. “Argh” is the animal-like grunting noise I somehow allowed to escape my throat as I attempted to hoist my body over her.
Finally, I got settled and quickly opened my book, trying to find the page I had abandoned in August, but I became distracted by looking around.
The woman next to me was writing in a journal, which I kind of regarded as cheating, but I didn’t dare say so.
I desperately tried to make eye contact with someone — anyone — to have a little laugh with about whatever it was that we were all doing, but this wasn’t an eye-contact festival, I reminded myself. No one looked up from their laps. Even the man across the room who picked his nose, quickly, with a pinky kept his eyes averted while he did it.
It was just so…quiet. The only sound coming from the room was classical music through the speakers and muffled murmurs from the bar in the front. I watched book readers pause to fetch fancy cocktails and glasses of wine after whispering with the bartender before carrying their drinks back to their seats.
At one point, the bartender dropped a glass, and the noise was roar-like in the silence, causing all the readers to stop and look up. I tried to make an amused smile at the cute man in the corner, but he just went back to reading Harry Potter.
I found myself just really hoping that no one farted. Even the smallest squeak would be heard.
Still not having read a page at this point, I evaluated what the other patrons of the party were reading, but most had kept their covers hidden — they were either embarrassed or uninterested in impressing anyone in the room. It’s hard to say which. I noticed one person with a Kindle, which begs the question, Is it a faux pas to bring a Kindle to a silent reading party?
In addition to Kindle Kyle, there was also a knitter and a quitter who was just texting with her book lying face down. One woman had taken off her shoes, and an older gentleman was wearing a really sharp vest, and I had so many questions about this event, but those were not welcome here, so I kept them to myself and tried to return to my book.
I found myself just really hoping that no one farted. Even the smallest squeak would be heard.
In a turn of events that I did not foresee, the woman sitting next to me ripped a piece of paper from her bookmark and put it in her mouth. And then she did it again. She was eating her bookmark, letting it dissolve on her tongue! I wanted to know if this was her bad habit that she was ashamed of or if she thought it was a delicious snack. I returned to my book because I was concerned that if she started snacking on the pages of her book, I would laugh, and everyone would hate me.
I realized that an hour had already passed. I realized that my foot was asleep and that I had a wedgie. I realized that I loved this…I really loved this.
The whole situation reminded me of reading in elementary school, except everyone had wine and not juice boxes, and no teacher was telling us to be quiet, because we already knew to be. There was something beautiful and simple about the act of this shared yet individual experience. We were all together but not required to socialize or feign enthusiasm for things we didn’t care about but were told we should.
By the end of the 90-minute event, I’d finished four chapters, three pieces of gum, two Jolly Ranchers and one drink — the proceeds of which went toward the library of a San Francisco public school. A few people began standing, others went on reading and I actually made eye contact with the woman across from me
Finally—finally—words began to be uttered throughout the room.
I realized that now I might be expected to socialize, so to avoid it, I scooted off the edge of the platform and awkwardly climbed over the woman below me — once again — sneaking out of the bookstore as silently as I had entered it.
The whole thing was truly a lovely experience, which made me wonder, Are silent reading parties actually an introvert’s dream?
