A man reads a novel

A man reads a novel. No less. He is sitting in his car, which is parked in a quiet alley and has the front door opened to mitigate the heat of the day. I stop to ask him what and why he is reading. He replies, reluctantly. It is a famous novel by a renowned author, a novel most of the other people had once read. I know that much. I know I know it the moment he tells me. He is not sure why he is reading it. He seems a bit ashamed to be seen reading a novel but somehow that shame does not seem to bother him much. Shame is a feeling he must be friends with. I think to myself this is indeed a pitiful man. He is convinced that reading the novel is not doing him absolutely any good. It is not doing him any bad either, for what is worth. That childish conviction alone seems to him a fair enough reason to keep reading the novel.