If you visit my house, you’ll find a bookshelf lined with impressive titles, by important 20th-century writers: Faulkner, Joyce, Hemingway, Burroughs, Richler. They look great. I haven’t read any of them.

It’s possible that I’m shallow. Or lazy. Or maybe I dismiss these books/writers as “old,” despite being only a century behind me. Hmm, maybe not, since I don’t read too many new writers, either, aside from Chuck Palahniuk — but we don’t talk about Chuck Palahniuk. Could be, simply, the inherent knowledge that I could never get through all of these works. (Ulysses alone!) These things are much easier to buy than read. I’ll let myself off easy by calling this… procrastination.

In any case, there my books sit, spines uncracked. I never consciously imply that I’ve read them, but neither do I mind if you subconsciously infer such. There have certainly been enough times that I’ve needed to fake, with a knowing nod or tight-lipped grin, that I understand the reference when someone mentions a key line of dialogue from The Edible Woman, or the influence on, say, Chuck Palahniuk, of Kurt Vonnegut’s Slaughterhouse-Five, original title: The Children’s Crusade: A Duty Dance with Death, by Kurt Vonnegut, A Fourth-Generation German-American Now Living in Easy Circumstances on Cape Cod [and Smoking Too Much], Who, as an American Infantry Scout Hors de Combat, as a Prisoner of War, Witnessed the Fire Bombing of Dresden, Germany, ‘The Florence of the Elbe,’ a Long Time Ago, and Survived to Tell the Tale. This is a Novel Somewhat in the Telegraphic Schizophrenic Manner of Tales of the Planet Tralfamadore, Where the Flying Saucers Come From. Peace. (I know what you’re wondering and, no, I don’t get paid for this blog by the word.)

Yes, I do realize that by not reading these books, I’m missing out. But in the last few years, and these days more than ever, I consider how often I’m online or on-phone — is there a word for that? — juggling the ceaseless distractions of Twitter, Facebook, Scrabble and Cut the Rope (I prefer it over Angry Birds), and it just does not interest me to carry around a Kindle, let alone a book.

While we’re on the subject of Kindle, I know people are debating if it will “kill” the book. I love this insightful quote by Brit comedian Stephen Fry, “Books are no more threatened by Kindle than stairs by elevators.”

Anyway, I digress. Regress, probably, too. I know there are others out there, maintaining the shameful charade of being well-read. To which I say: Fellow procrastinators, rejoice! I believe I have found the solution, and it may even be better then reading books.

No, this is not the solution.

There’s a site called Open Culture that offers, for your downloading and listening pleasure, dozens of great works, many of them read by their authors. It’s beyond-cool hearing the creators express their own works. Highly recommended: Aldous Huxley narrating Brave New World. The site also features other celebs reading masterworks: to name but a few, Orson Welles reads Moby Dick, Johnny Depp reads Hunter S. Thompson, Tom Waits reads (pretty perfect match, this one) Bukowski.

Do yourself a favour: Put these “books” on your smartphone, pop in some ear buds on the subway, nod along as if you’re listening to Beastie Boys’ Hot Sauce Committee Pt. 2, and smugly look at those who are actually reading. Point, you.

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Image courtesy of gualtiero and aloshbennett.