It’s high
time I wrote something about books, I suppose.
As a child
or even teenager I would have said books were my life, because they were an
escape into other worlds and other lives; though I didn't always understand
why, I knew fictional stories provoked me and moved me in ways that were
mysterious. They taught me about the world, about the self, about relationships
and meaningful things.
As a college
student I would have said books were my life, because I had chosen to study
them full time, to learn why they
moved me in such ways, to learn the wonderful nuances of literary style and
theory. Whereas before the words would overpower me in beautiful ways, like
closing your eyes while the water breaks over, I could now sit with other like-minded
people, sharers of a passion, and analyze how and why the author wrote such
words. I could learn the heartache and poignancy of narrative and still
appreciate its abstraction, or pull it apart like a science experiment and get
to its inner meaning.
As a working
adult I can say books are my life, because they are my field. I get up each
morning and drive to a wonderful place where I can talk about books and teach
young teens to appreciate them in ways they maybe haven’t before. I can spark a
discussion about the object of my passion – books – and allow students to
surprise themselves and each other with how powerful and heartbreaking and
humorous and relevant and downright enjoyable books can be. I can feel them get
the creeps from Edgar Allan Poe, or listen to them defend the dignity of Hester
Prynne, or debate the ethical characteristics of Jay Gatsby, or question
existence alongside Hamlet. I can see the moment – however brief – when they
catch themselves emotionally resonating with a fictional character, or suddenly
understanding the message an author pleads with every sentence.
Books have
made up my life, and here are some of my favorite moments with them:
As a small
boy, listening to my mother read me The
Mitten by Jan Brett and wondering if the animals remained friends after
their shared home in the mitten was destroyed.
Discovering
Harry Potter at the age of eleven, and spending the next thirteen years after
that that losing myself time after time in Rowling’s world – whether that be
running home on a new release date to lock myself in my room and not leave
until the book was finished, or reading The
Prisoner of Azkaban during the 2000 Summer Olympics Opening Ceremony in
Sydney (I had reached the climax in the Shrieking Shack, and kept running breathlessly
in and out of the living room to watch the ceremony on TV). Although I love
many books, I love none of them in the same way as Harry, for I grew up with
him.
Glancing at
my older brother’s illustrated edition of Lord
of the Rings when I was twelve, and deciding to venture into Middle Earth.
Spending the
summer of my sixteenth year escaping into Narnia.
Reading The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn for
the first time in a hole-in-the-wall diner on the side of I-79 with a cup of
bad coffee and a slice of decent apple pie.
Deliberately
making myself close the cover of Jonathan
Strange & Mr. Norrell because I was afraid of finishing it too fast; I
chose instead to live inside the book for several weeks to prolong the experience.
Finding
myself more emotionally moved by Marilyn Robinson’s Gilead and Wendell Berry’s Jayber
Crow than any film I had ever seen.
Discovering
on several sunlit afternoons that C.S. Lewis was a kindred spirit of mine – a lover
of the same literature, a sharer of the same humor, and the possessor of a
beautiful perspective on Christianity that I still long for.
Sitting in
my dorm room after finishing Absalom,
Absalom! by William Faulkner, feeling like I was just hit by a ton of
bricks, and marveling that someone could manipulate and contort language in
such a way.
Reading
Charles Dickens on the train to and from graduate school, and stopping every so
often to people-watch.
Only picking
up Cry the Beloved Country because I
was slated to teach it, but finding instead that I had never read more
beautiful or lyrical prose.
These
moments are mere glimpses at a lifetime of years loving and pursuing books –
and I hope the endeavor continues until my eyes are too old and dim to make out
the letters. People often ask me for suggested books, or what might be my
favorite book? But you know already that this is an impossible question, that
to give an answer would be the same as selecting one beloved child over others,
or selecting a single friend to join me at the end of the world. It can’t be
done.
Books are my
life. And I wouldn't have it any other way.
