I read too much and have done so for darned near all my life. That creates a few problems from time to time. For example, recently, my problem with reading books on history has been too many moments of getting into a book and either saying to myself (over and over), “Know that already,” or “Oh, you flippin’ idiot,” or “Liar!” *sigh* Every now and then, though, I do manage to run across a decent history (or related) book I’ve missed. For example, how I missed Thomas Babington Macaulay’s “Lays of Ancient Rome” for so many years, I’ll never know. Strange the lacunae one can find in one’s reading list. . .
Another problem is in reading fiction (well, and non-fiction for that matter). By now, I know all the plots. My reading/recognition/comprehension vocabulary is. . . probably excessive. Heck, I enjoy reading dictionaries and even puzzling out probable etymologies on my own before checking authorities, etc. I have read enough well-written text that, while I don’t always show it in my own casual writing here and elsewhere (for which I am NOT PAID), I’m familiar enough with good writing (grammar, word usage, etc.) that I’m offended by people who expect to be paid for writing crap.
And do NOT let me get started on contemporary “poetry”! Please! “Crap” is far, far too kind as a description of most of it.
It’s a burden. Be glad I bear it so you don’t have to if you don’t want to. *heh*
(Both of my regular readers here are literate enough to bear the burden as well, but can feel free to let me do so *cough* alone *cough* if they wish. ;-))
OTOH, one of the very real joys of reading a “lottamuch” is the discovery of those holes and gaps, lacks and losses in my education and. . . filling them.