"Take your time," Mr. Ballou encouraged."Read, borrow, and keep.Find something you like.What do you read?" "Pick for me, then." I said. He looked up and down at me as though measuring me for a suit.After a moment, he nodded, and handed me a dark red book, fairly thick. "The Last of the Just," I read."By Andre Schwarz-Bart.What's it about?" "You tell me," he said."Next week." I started after supper, sitting outdoors on an uncomfortable kitchen chair Within a few pages, the yard, the summer, disappeared.Translated from French, the language was beautiful, simple, impossible to resist.When the evening light finally failed I moved inside, read all through the night. To this day, thirty years later, I clearly remember the experience.It was my first meeting with world literature, and I was amazed by the strong power a novel contain.I lacked the vocabulary, however, to translate my feelings into words, so the next week, when Mr. Ballou asked,"Well?"I only replied, "It was good." "Keep it, then,"he said."Shall I suggest another?"      I nodded, and was presented with Margaret Mead's Coming of Age in Samoa.      To make the story short, Mr. Ballou never paid me a cent for helping cut his grass that year or the next, but for fifteen years I taught anthroplogy at Dartmouth College.That summer when I started to read became a turning point in my life which change the course of all that followed. What was the writer's attitude towards reading before he met Mr. Ballou?
He enjoyed reading magazines He could hardly read He found no time to read He was not an enthusiastic reader