I’ve always loved books. I think I loved them even before could read. The feel of them, their weight, their smell. So much is promised in one small paperback. They can take you away to some place you may never see in real life, even to some place that doesn’t even exist. But as you read, you go there, with the writer. Or perhaps you imagine it just a little differently than the writer; there’s always room for another vision of the same place. Books can open your mind, though they can also close them. Some books are worth staying up to the wee hours to devour. But sometimes you stay up to the wee hours and regret it—the butler did it after all. Some books seem to bring meaning and purpose to life, though as I write that, I’m not sure how to explain it.
Favorite novel: The Once and Future King by T.H. White
Favorite novelist: Jane Austen
Favorite poet: Pablo Neruda
Favorite playwright: William Shakespeare (who else?)
I never can understand people who say, “I never read” or “I don’t like to read”. I don’t get that at all. I feel sorry for them and I confess I sometimes look down upon them. Who can go through life without reading? How do they spend their time—just watching television or doing cross-stitch or something? Yuck. I know I watch plenty of television, but I usually have a book in hand even while watching.
Let me think: how many places do I take a book? There’s one in the bathroom (not for toilet use but to read while my son is bathing). There’s several by my bed for reference or for bedtime reading—and a few library books I’ve finished and need to return soon. There’s one on the table to peruse while eating. There’s an audio book in my Walkman to listen to while jogging or cleaning or doing other menial tasks. There’s a pile of travel books under the bed that I’m not ready to put away because I’m still deciding where I want to go. There’s a couple in the living room to read while the television is on—TV programs are usually not captivating enough alone. I used to keep a paperback in my purse or coat pocket just in case I got stuck waiting somewhere, but now that I’m a mother I’m usually busy entertaining my children, so I have a kid’s book to read to them instead. And of course there are bookcases of books in the closet and many more in storage in Texas.
Sometimes I read an old children’s book to Isaac and realize that I read it when I was a child, or perhaps someone read it to me. It’s an amazing feeling to read something and think, “I remember reading this just as I was learning to read.” It’s a weird kind of nostalgia that gives me a little thrill and puts a lump in my throat. It reminds me of how much I’ve always loved books. I’m so glad I came from a family that treasures books. Growing up the primary clutter in our house were piles and piles of books. And it’s my own housekeeping downfall—I hate to put books away until I’ve finished them, but I’m always reading several (4-7) at a time, so they all have to be accessible so I remember to finish. I have tried to focus on just one book at a time, but I just can’t do it. Something else always catches my eye, or I want to read up on child rearing or writing or whatever my latest interest is.
Fiction is my primary addiction. Yes, addiction is the word. I am addicted to books. I can think of worse addictions (food addiction, for one, which is also a problem for me sometimes). I love the escape, the pure joy of fantasy, but I also love to learn about life and other people—it’s not all escape. I have a great love of learning and history, but I would rather read a page-turning fictionalized account than a mind-numbingly dull textbook. Mystery, science fiction, thrillers, and classics—the only ones that bore me are the more pretentious contemporary books where nothing seems to really happen and you only end up feeling depressed by the end.
Poetry—I love poetry. Though I must admit that I don’t spend a lot of time delving into the deeper meaning behind it. It seems so prosaic to question poetry too closely. I like to just soak up the rhythm and beauty and feel a poem on a gut level, not analyze it to death.
Books, books, books. Where would my life be today without books? I can’t even imagine living without them. I read and re-read shampoo bottles in the shower just to have something to read. I think my heart would break, or at least I would die of boredom, if I couldn’t have my books.
