The recent popularity of “books about books” is not in itself unusual, but it remains a peculiar genre. It is distinct from literary criticism, and usually comes under the heading of an “easy read,” not far a field from books about favorite songs, vacation spots, or movies. It sometimes seems reading has become some sort of unusual sport or obscure hobby like butterfly collecting, or, more ominously, a pursuit in danger of becoming so exotic that it will be left to specialists and aficionados.

What exactly qualifies someone to write such a book is unclear, though an enthusiasm for reading, coupled with an unhealthy quantity of time spent doing so, must be a prerequisite. A few books about the history of reading stand out as authoritative and necessary; the mammoth “A Gentle Madness” by Nicholas A. Basbanes comes to mind. Then there are the more common “lighter” examples, such as the husband and wife trilogy “Used and Rare,” “Slightly Chipped,” and “Warmly Inscribed” by Nancy and Lawrence Goldstone. While occasionally amusing, these are amateurish and too recreational to rise above garden-variety suburban snobbishness.

In a well-written book of this genre, one will happily encounter myriad titles in need of recovery from the dustbin of literary history. In a poorly written example, one is likely to reach for the remote control.

Alberto Manguel is probably best known for his book “Dictionary of Imaginary Places,” which has the merits of inclusiveness (it covers everything from Homer to Tolkien and beyond) and lightness. He is also known for “A History of Reading,” which fits snugly into the category of books about books. His latest, “A Reading Diary, A Passionate Reader’s Reflections on a Year of Books,” might turn away more serious readers with its title alone, which could as easily be “A Passionate Gourmand’s Reflections on a Year of Delicacies.”

To be fair, this banality probably owes more to a marketing director than its author; nevertheless, the book is shot through with self-satisfaction, some of it maybe earned, most of it appallingly bloated. “A Reading Diary” is not particularly unusual or, for that matter, original in form or content. It consists of diary entries for the months from June 2002 to May 2003. Twelve books make up the centerpieces of each of the months, and Mr. Manguel’s thoughts on these books are served up alongside an assortment of opinions and jottings about Manguel’s daily life – a life that will not be remembered for its adventurousness. The most appealing element of the book is his persistent desire amid various professional obligations to curl up at home with a book.

Mr. Manguel admits from the start that “A Reading Diary” is not meant to be coherent and even describes it as “fragmented, haphazard.” This recklessness supposedly provides him with a brief respite from the rigor he applies to his other books, and it also allows him “to think without an established destination,” rarely a good thing in literature. Much as David Denby ambled back to Columbia University to retake the great books class there for his 1996 best-seller “Great Books,” Manguel “decided to reread a few of my favorite old books.” He does this to discover how “their many-layered and complex worlds of the past seemed to reflect the dismal chaos of the world I was living in.”

This sounds fine, but we must remember that his personal world is hardly one of dismal chaos. If he means the globe on which he is perched, in his cozy village home in France, we would all agree. But then, when was the world not a wretched place? Mr. Manguel views his reading diary as something of a writer’s commonplace book as well, and this explains its rather random contents, but commonplace books are meant no more to be read publicly than diaries, even in an age preoccupied to a nauseating degree with the private lives of even its least remarkable inhabitants.

Still, the 12 books Manguel selects are all excellent. The core of the books will be familiar to American readers: These include classics by Rudyard Kipling, H.G. Wells, Arthur Conan Doyle, Kenneth Grahame, Margaret Atwood, and Miguel de Cervantes. These are mingled with those that American readers will have heard of but never actually read, such as Francois-Rene de Chateaubriand’s “Memoirs From Beyond the Grave” and Johann Goethe’s “Elective Affinities,” neither of which has ever gained a large English-speaking audience.

Finally, his surprising and admirable selection of lesser-known authors includes the likes of Dino Buzzati, Sei Shonagon, Joaquim Maria Machado de Assis, and his fellow Argentinean Aldolfo Bioy Casares. I wish he had simply cut the fat and written a book on these last four authors.

Mr. Manguel makes too many crass and cliched assertions, such as this one: “The ignorance of the English-speaking reader never ceases to amaze me.” The book is published in part for a large English speaking audience, expected to pay $22 for such insights, a paradox that perhaps eluded him. Likewise, his use of long quotations – “my habit of thinking in quotations” – is ultimately pedantic and uninteresting. This is also true of his impromptu lists of “detective novels” and “objects given to me by friends.”

Mr. Manguel is an intelligent, especially well-read man, and a very capable writer; but he is a bit too apologetic about the shortcomings of this book. “It has the merit of being enthusiastic and short, the latter thankfully atoning for the former,” he writes. Perhaps a sparkling wit like Truman Capote could have made such a loosely organized diary interesting, but Mr. Manguel is not very charming or even particularly likable in any way. Still, he is not to blame for that: Maybe diaries of all sorts, even of the ersatz variety intended for publication, are best kept in the nightstand drawer.

Mr. Hilbert last wrote for these pages on Helen Vendler and Harold Bloom.