“Once upon a time a girl sat curled up in a chair reading a book about a circus. She was oblivious to her surroundings, all senses focused on the words. Her eyes hungrily reading, and seeing the bright colours, her ears hearing the sounds of excited cries, tasting the candyfloss and smelling the diesel of the generators and her hands holding the book tightly as though fearing, that if she let go, it might slip from her hands and the circus would disappear.”
A consistent memory of my childhood is depicted perfectly in the above paragraph. I read constantly. On my own, amongst people, anywhere and “just one more chapter” has been a regular refrain right up to this day, a wonderful trait inherited from my mother.
A barometer of how I’m doing generally in life lies in my capacity to read. The times that I have struggled and felt resistant to pick up a book, have been the loneliest and yet, there’s been a knowing that the drive to read will always return. Thus far, I’m pleased to share, that I’ve been proved right. Books as a constant companion have run a parallel process throughout my life. Huge amounts of variety, sometimes wanting to stay in my comfort zone, devouring old favourites and other times, taking risks, choosing or being recommended books I wouldn’t have otherwise considered, challenging the great fear when starting a new book “what if I won’t like it?’
Books have given me a myriad of gifts. Excitement, education, comfort, escapism, curiosity, sadness, fear, laughter, anticipation……..I could go on and on.
I considered seeing what AI could offer on the subject and then smiled at the irony. After I’ve finished what I consider to be a great book, I linger awhile, imaging the author, feeling that I’ve accessed an indescribable part of them and I’m left wanting more. I imagine feeling cheated upon discovering that I emotionally investing in a software package!
I recall the first time I felt identification with a character, such a powerful feeling that a girl depicted by words actually had such a similar thought process to mine, one that I hadn’t been able to share with anyone. I remember feeling scared that the author must know me and that I’d been found out! Having my reality reflected back to me through words on a page continues to illicit a powerful connection within me.
There are burdens to carry as a booklover – “What’s your favourite book?” An utterly impossible question to answer, I can offer a detailed and intense discussion around potential nominations, but a definitive single answer? Not a chance!
Don’t get me started on the joy of bookshops, that’s deserves a space of its own….
