In the meantime, I am reading rather than blogging in bed.  So it was interesting to find an article on the topic in the Sunday Globe, in the form of a bitchy book review by Daniel Akst, who proclaims, apropos of nothing, early on in his critique of Sven Birkerts' Reading Life: Books for the Ages: "A writer who thinks reading is more dynamic or transformational than sex is not one I am dying to read," and later concludes, again, apropos of nothing—there is no quote from Birkerts cited, and no other reference to The Great Sex vs. Reading Debate: "My problem is that Birkerts's sensitive reading strikes me as entirely too chaste, perhaps befitting a man who, as mentioned above, considers reading more dynamic and changeful than sex."

Forget Birkerts.  What's up with Akst? Did you guys meet at the Ramrod, and Birkerts wouldn't let you blow him in the john, or what? Get over it, already. I mean, it's a bit juvenile to basically say, "I only like books by people who believe sex is better than reading." Not to mention it's kind of a weird way to frame either of the activities in question, and a random criterion by which to judge them.

As someone who actually has dynamic and changeful sex (I sometimes change the sheets afterward, if that's what Akst means) at least once a day—with myself or whomever's handy when the mood strikes—I think Mr. Akst is showing his ignorance about sex more than anything by acting as if it in any way conflicts with reading (I often do both at once to save on kleenex).

This reeks to high holy heaven of an insular academic argument, doesn't it? And it needs to be publicly refuted and condemned.

It's apples and oranges, Akst. Saying sex is better than reading or vice versa is like saying crunches are better than bench presses. Trust me. (I mean, have you seen my abs?)

Or better yet, don't trust me. It's science. The areas of the brain activated during sex include the anterior cingulate, medial prefrontal, orbitofrontal, insular, and occipitotemporal cortices, amygdala and ventral striatum. The thalamus and hypothalamus in men, as well as the amygdala. And the ventral tegmental area, too, which also lights up with heroine use.

Reading is associated with the basal surface of the temporal lobe, the posterior portion of the superior and middle temporal gyri extending into temporoparietal areas, and inferior frontal lobe areas, primarily in the left hemisphere, various parts that light up with the consumption of peanut butter and banana sandwiches at pajama parties.

Clearly apples and oranges.

The nature of the revelation in sex and reading is different, too. This is a commonplace observation. So I think it's strange to criticize a book or its author for not providing a transformation rivaling what one (however theoretically) gets from sex. It's a little like criticizing a chef for inventing a dish that doesn't taste like a chaise lounge feels.

While Akst is clearly trying to convey a badly misplaced sexual expertise (he knows the secret that Birkerts doesn't—that sex is better than reading), his comments, as minimal and gratuitous as they are in a review of a book that's not about sex, show a naiveté about and fixation with "sex" that's positively adolescent.

Why the quotes around "sex" in that last sentence?  Because that's what Akst is talking about.  An abstraction.  He feels he doesn't need to define his terms because his fellow voluptuaries, for whom his knowing jibes are offered, also know, unlike Birkerts, that only LOSERS stay home and read when they could be out rutting like wild pigs.  Er, wild, dynamic, changeful pigs, I mean. 

Akst comes off as the Dawn Wiener of the literary set, trying desperately to fit in with the randy lacrosse players and their horny cheerleader babes by making fun of the geek they just kicked in stomach, who's curled up in the corner with his book. 

But it's not very convincing, I'm afraid.

As most adults know, not all sex is better than no sex at all. Sometimes it's better to stay home and read a book than to go out and have bad sex. The more sex you have the more you risk the revelation that a lot of sex, like a lot of books, is rubbish. Truth is, to be indiscriminate about the quality of sex shows more desperation than being indiscriminate about the quality of literature. 

I am quite happy to read an author who really enjoys reading, and quite happy having sex with someone—anyone, please!—who really enjoys sex.  But that doesn't mean that reading and sex are the same thing.  That Akst gets them confused and doesn't have the good sense to keep it to himself makes me wonder what his library looks like—all those books with their covers worn off and their pages stuck together. 

Gives me the heebie-jeebies.