The Chair That Changed How I Read

It took me three years and four failed attempts to find a reading chair that actually made me want to sit down with a book. The first was too upright, the second too soft, the third looked perfect in the shop and betrayed me within a week — my back knew within ten minutes that it had been bought for how it looked, not how it held a person for two hours on a Sunday.

The fourth one I almost didn't buy. It was in a corner of a secondhand shop, dark green, a little frayed at one arm, the sort of chair that photographs badly and reads beautifully. I sat in it to test it the way you'd try on a coat, and I noticed I didn't want to get back up. That was the whole test, really. Everything since has just been confirmation.

It has a low, deep seat and arms just the right height to rest a book against without holding it up yourself. The fabric has softened rather than worn. It sits at an angle to the window that catches the morning light without ever being in my eyes, which I promise was luck rather than design, though I take full credit for it now.

I've thought a lot about why this one chair changed how much I actually read, when none of the others did. I think it's simply that it removed every small reason not to sit down — no discomfort to negotiate, no better options tempting me elsewhere in the flat. The chair made reading the path of least resistance, which is probably the quietest kind of good design there is.

I don't think everyone needs to spend three years on a chair. But I do think it's worth being properly particular about the few objects that shape your ordinary hours — the ones you'll sit in, wear, or reach for most days, long after the excitement of buying them has worn off. Mine is green, secondhand, and a little frayed at one arm, and I'd choose it again over anything new.