It’s something I used to do, though I’m not sure when I started to do it or why. Interestingly, I broke the habit because I felt that doing so was reducing how much I actually retained by comparison to when I would read in silence.

Granted, I suppose it depends on your definition of “read aloud.” As I was sharing a space with people at the time, I’d have to whisper the words to myself than fully speak them out. But I don’t think there’s anything “insane” about it, either way. It’s good practice for when you find yourself actually having to read aloud.

It’s been a long time since I last read it, but I remember thoroughly enjoying it as well. I had considered watching the movie, too, but decided to give it a pass after IMDB mentioned that it contained a graphic rape scene. I know that it’s related to the events of the book, but that was… you know… text. But it doesn’t sound like I was missing anything, either way.

Don’t forget that Bram Stoker also wrote The Lair of the White Worm, a novel considered one of the worst books ever written.

Analyzing the text isn’t about reading the text and immediately understanding every possible eccentricity. It’s about creating a deeper understanding and appreciation for the source material through hours of research of factors both internal to the text and external. In this case, I choose to not ascribe any of these people (even those with as prestigious a background as a lecturer from Yale) with such an adjective as “smart” as much as “learned.” In other words, they are only as intelligent as the information they take in.

In the case of the stories you’re reading, those are stories with hundreds upon hundreds of years of dissection and analyses. So if you’ll forgive the cliché, anyone who chooses to do a lecture or publish an essay on them in the current day is standing on the shoulders of giants. It would be unrealistic to expect to read any book so dense both textually and historically and expect to immediately have a thesis statement ready to be prepared. The Yale professor you watched probably prepared and refined that lecture over the course of months and years. They very likely did not read the poem and just vomit out their thoughts to magically produce an intricately detailed and insightful textual analysis.

If I really, really like the book to the point where I’d like a physical copy to place on my shelf. I recently read through Doyle’s chronology of Sherlock Holmes stories on my tablet via Project Gutenburg and would love a complete collection in hard cover format. However, it seems most of the contemporary releases, judging by Amazon reviews, are riddled with typos, so I might have to pursue some obscure, out-of-print release instead.

If I like the book but only kind of, I might purchase a digital copy when it’s generously discounted, but I won’t go out of my way for it.

The old adage of “you can’t judge a book by its cover” is more usefully applied to the critique of literature than it is the consumption of it. The purpose of a cover is to draw attention to a book and to pique the curiosity of potential readers (and by extension potential buyers). It’s a marketing tool, so I think it’s perfectly natural for the cover to be considered in your reading and/or purchasing decisions.

But if you were to review a book on the merits of prose, characterization, or other internal factors, you would rightfully not be taken very seriously if your only frame of reference is how bland the cover is. In other words, it’s fine to judge a book by its cover when looking for something to read. It’s not fine to judge a book by its cover when attempting to make definitive statements about its actual qualities.