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No one reads the New Yorker." So said our consultant, Mark Bricklin, the editorial guru at Rodale Press (Men's Health, Prevention; $500 million in revenues). What struck me was not only the relish with which he made this pronouncement, heavily seasoned with scorn, but also a sense of deja vu: Our consultant from last year, Mark Mulvoy, the now-retired editor at Sports Illustrated, the second-most profitable magazine in the world, had issued the same judgment—followed by the cat-that-ate-the-canary smile of a man who knows he is saying something slightly heretical.

And heretical it was. Why would two very successful editors in the word trade attack the most obsessively word-oriented general-interest periodical in the world? I could understand if they were mad at the alleged sacrilege committed by editorial diva Tina Brown, but their ire was aimed at the ideal itself: at the folly of capturing people's attention solely through good writing on important topics in long articles on gray pages. "Get real."

From a business perspective, their advice was sound. We need to target a niche, sell the benefits, service the readers' needs, yank them in with every editorial and design tactic possible, blah, blah, blah. (I hope you have enjoyed the slightly airier borders in the last few issues; that's the fruit of consultants.) But from the perspective of the reading cult, that fragile but vibrant community that lifts up the printed word as a privileged means of discourse, these men were blasphemers.

One of many surprises in my life has been the discovery that reading takes more will and planning as I grow older. A few nights ago I really did mean to read chapter three of Jack Beatty's The World According to Peter Drucker (Free Press, 201 pp.; $25), an attempt at systematizing and introducing one of the greatest minds of the twentieth century (Drucker is the father of "management" studies and coined the term postmodern). Written by an Atlantic Monthly senior editor, the book is as informed, well-edited, and intriguing as the magazine he writes for. And Beatty's book has stayed beside my bed, the bookmark unmoved.

The kids were in bed, my wife home from work, the house was picked up. Then Karen turned on the TV, "just to unwind." That's when we were transformed into Roman citizens enjoying a night at the Coliseum. The red meat of President Clinton's latest alleged affair had just been fed to the ravenous media lions. So much for reading.

The next night child #2 complained of stomachaches, using this as an excuse to come into our bed. Beatty went unread once again. My daughter's aches progressed to something more active during the night, reducing sleep to a series of catnaps. Naturally I was too punchy the next night to get any reading done. And in the interim since I last entered the world of Peter Drucker, a dozen new magazines had arrived, not to mention the typical offerings of parties, a small-group meeting, school events, soccer coaching, a play (Les Miserables, with child #1, who got sick an hour after getting home). Poor Beatty.

In high school, seven days was a long time to spend on one book. I still remember the at least weekly experience of hearing my parents' bed screech and then seeing my disheveled dad with one eye open poking his head in my room at 1:30 a.m. "What are you doing still up? You got school tomorrow." "I'm almost to the end of the chapter. Just a few more minutes"—and he foolishly believed me.

What can I say about seven days and only 32 pages? I am pierced with shame.

But I have strategies. I refuse to wallow in my illiteracy. Cult membership carries responsibilities. Here is one attempt at a cure: Books on Tape. My wonderful local library carries hundreds of unabridged books on audiocassette (the most recent offerings sometimes come on cd). Currently I am 12 hours into the 33-hour A Personal History, by Katharine Graham. This is the latest selection in my "teach myself about the era I live in" series, which has also included David McCullough's Truman, David Halberstam's The Fifties (which, unfortunately, was only available in an abridged four-cassette version), and Annie Dillard's An American Childhood.

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