My Life in Middlemarch. There's Andy Miller's The Year of Reading Dangerously. Phyllis Rose just published The Shelf. The list goes on and on. Even though I am a devoted reader, and I love books set in bookstores (I loved Tom Rachman's The Rise and Fall of Great Powers and Gabrielle Zevin's The Storied Life of A.J. Fikry), but I can't think of anything more dull than reading about other people reading.
As I've read all of the reviews for these books, I got to thinking about autodidacts I've met. You don't meet many of them anymore, but I always end up having the same mental debate. What should one read? Should one even think there's a canonical list of books for everyone? When someone asks me which books they need to read, the books they've "missed out on," I have to point them to Harold Bloom's list or something similar—because I am a good librarian.
Aside from that whole philosophical argument, I find that I admire their dedication to reading a full canon. Reading Bloom's list will take years. And at the end of it, you can call yourself an educated person the way few people these days are. Lately, I can hardly manage to read my one classic a month, since I got stuck on Villette. (I really should just move on to something else so that I can keep my New Year's resolution.)
I'm fairly sure, however, that I won't be able to read anyone's memoir about reading. That's one level of abstraction too many.