One of the Most Tragic Anecdotes I Ever Read

"John Hemmings had spent thirty years of his life in the public eye, his days a whirlwind of committee meetings, press briefings, and constituent demands. When he finally retired, he envisioned a pastoral second act. He and his wife, Eleanor, had a quaint cottage with a sun-drenched library, its shelves holding all the classics he had promised himself he would read "someday". That day had finally arrived.

"But the silence was jarring. In his old life, his brain was a constant triage of information, his focus a sharp and deliberate tool. Now, in the quiet of his library, that tool felt blunted. He would open a weighty biography of Winston Churchill, his idol, and read a page, then another. Soon, his mind would drift. He’d find himself mentally tallying the votes for a bill that was passed years ago, or replaying an old televised debate, thinking of the retorts he should have made.

"He tried to force it, reading the same paragraph three times over. He moved on to a lighter, more modern thriller, but his attention still sputtered. The words on the page were like a dull political report; they lacked the urgency and stakes that had defined his professional life. The thrill of a high-stakes negotiation was gone, replaced by the gentle hum of a house with nothing on the agenda.

"Eleanor found him one afternoon staring out the window, a book resting unread on his lap. "What's wrong, dear?" she asked.

"It's just... I can't," he sighed, gesturing to the book. "I spend so long thinking about what I'm reading, only to realize I haven't actually read a word in five minutes."

"It wasn't a sudden cognitive decline, as his mind was still sharp for strategy. It was more of a re-wiring, the kind that happens when a high-powered machine is suddenly idling. His brain, accustomed to constant stimulation and the pressure of public life, had forgotten how to simply sit and absorb. The discipline of reading, for all his good intentions, was a different kind of work entirely. He had retired from one profession, but he was struggling to find his way into a more peaceful one." --? (found with AI)

I'm not sure where I read this story; it might have been The Oxford Book of Literary Anecdotes or An Irreverent and Thoroughly Incomplete Social History of Almost Everything. I also can't quite find out exactly which John Hemmings this is supposed to be, although I'm fairly sure it wasn't Thomas Jefferson's illegitimate son. I fear I'm beginning to lose some of my concentration when it comes to reading, but perhaps I've been inflating my abilities to myself all this time. I'm reminded of Pop's saying for years that when he was retired he'd be fishing all the time, which he almost never did when the time came. Still bought tackle and poles, though. Just like I buy books I'm not sure I'll ever read.