Reading is Fundamental
I love reading. I love books. I always have. I was the kid who woke up on Sunday mornings while it was still dark and read my All Of a Kind Family or Little House on the Prairie books over and over and over again by the dim glow of my nightlight. I'm the one who always has a book (or at minimum, a magazine) on her at all times "just in case".
I hit a dry spell this winter and I was afraid I might not ever read again. Yeah, I read stuff online and magazines and all of that but I was afraid I'd never find another book to wholly captivate me ever again. I'm past that. Thankfully.
What happens is this. You get a string of really great books--books that rock your world and suck you in so that all you do is read or think about reading when you can't. And then you pick up a dog. (Not literally, you understand....)
I had a great run in the summer and early fall: Time Traveler's Wife, Kite Runner, The Education of Arnold Hitler, Days of Awe, The Rug Merchant, The Sisters Mortland, The Brooklyn Follies, and The Space Between Us. I was on a tear. And then I read The Crimson Petal and the White.
Do Not Read This Book.
It was 800 pages long and I was enjoying it. It's a story about (among other things) a prostitute in Victorian England. It was a hefty book so not one you could easily read in bed. I devoted Saturdays and Sundays. Hours and hours I'll never get back. As it got closer to the end, it didn't seem to be wrapping up. Curious. Then, in the last page, Michael Faber (who I *will* see in hell) just ended it. Stopped. Said something like, "I'll bet you're wondering how this ends? Well so am I!" It just ended. What an emotional ripoff. I devoted days and weeks to this book and it just ends. No resolution, no conclusion, no "great ahhhhhh".
I was insulted. Offended. I took it personally. How dare he do that to this Dear Reader!
And then I was stuck. I didn't want to be suckered in by anyone else. Faber stole my trust. Would there be an author out there I could ever wholey trust again?
So, I read Cooking Light and the New Yorker. I watched TV and movies. I looked at books casually, picking them up, judging their covers (anyone who tells you we don't do that is lying), and putting them back down with a sigh.
But then I let Paul Auster in. I picked up Oracle Night on a business trip. I am a long-time Auster fan but somehow missed this book. I knew I could trust him, though he'd let me down before (there was a weird spell in there with Timbuktu and Mr. Vertigo, but he got past that, thankfully). Oracle Night wasn't the best book I've ever read but it helped me get my groove back. I do love reading.
On the plane ride home last week, I was thoroughly engrossed in A Short History of Tractors in Ukranian. I'm not done with it so no spoilers, please. I could picture Valentia and Nikoli so clearly--what wonderful characters--and they're not addicted to drugs, booze, or anything else that seems to be the prominent feature in the popular books of the moment! Hurrah! I was sucked in and little else mattered.
But the man next to me made me a little sad. I'm sure he paid me no mind during the 8 hour flight but I noticed him. He was traveling with his wife. She was reading and he just sat, looking ahead. No book, no magazine, nothing. He just sat there, virtually the entire flight. I wanted to pull a book (I always have a backup) out of my carryon luggage and thrust it in his hands, "Here! Read this! Lose yourself!" but I didn't. Maybe he is a reader and forgot his book. Maybe he's got a lot on his mind. Maybe he's memorized all of Shakespeare's sonnets and he was reciting the lines in his head. I don't know but he looked bored to me.
Books are magical. They are educational, they are entertaining, they can transport you. You know this. So, why aren't you reading more? Like me, perhaps it's laziness. It's easier sometimes to turn on the TV. But I've made a deal with myself to read more and I hope you will, too. Even just 15 minutes a day--I'm going to make it habit again, and I'm not going to let the likes of Michael Faber get me down. For every Faber, there is an Auster, a Moore (Lorrie, that is), an Estrin, a Nissenson. Buy their books, devour them, and share them with your friends.
I hit a dry spell this winter and I was afraid I might not ever read again. Yeah, I read stuff online and magazines and all of that but I was afraid I'd never find another book to wholly captivate me ever again. I'm past that. Thankfully.
What happens is this. You get a string of really great books--books that rock your world and suck you in so that all you do is read or think about reading when you can't. And then you pick up a dog. (Not literally, you understand....)
I had a great run in the summer and early fall: Time Traveler's Wife, Kite Runner, The Education of Arnold Hitler, Days of Awe, The Rug Merchant, The Sisters Mortland, The Brooklyn Follies, and The Space Between Us. I was on a tear. And then I read The Crimson Petal and the White.
Do Not Read This Book.
It was 800 pages long and I was enjoying it. It's a story about (among other things) a prostitute in Victorian England. It was a hefty book so not one you could easily read in bed. I devoted Saturdays and Sundays. Hours and hours I'll never get back. As it got closer to the end, it didn't seem to be wrapping up. Curious. Then, in the last page, Michael Faber (who I *will* see in hell) just ended it. Stopped. Said something like, "I'll bet you're wondering how this ends? Well so am I!" It just ended. What an emotional ripoff. I devoted days and weeks to this book and it just ends. No resolution, no conclusion, no "great ahhhhhh".
I was insulted. Offended. I took it personally. How dare he do that to this Dear Reader!
And then I was stuck. I didn't want to be suckered in by anyone else. Faber stole my trust. Would there be an author out there I could ever wholey trust again?
So, I read Cooking Light and the New Yorker. I watched TV and movies. I looked at books casually, picking them up, judging their covers (anyone who tells you we don't do that is lying), and putting them back down with a sigh.
But then I let Paul Auster in. I picked up Oracle Night on a business trip. I am a long-time Auster fan but somehow missed this book. I knew I could trust him, though he'd let me down before (there was a weird spell in there with Timbuktu and Mr. Vertigo, but he got past that, thankfully). Oracle Night wasn't the best book I've ever read but it helped me get my groove back. I do love reading.
On the plane ride home last week, I was thoroughly engrossed in A Short History of Tractors in Ukranian. I'm not done with it so no spoilers, please. I could picture Valentia and Nikoli so clearly--what wonderful characters--and they're not addicted to drugs, booze, or anything else that seems to be the prominent feature in the popular books of the moment! Hurrah! I was sucked in and little else mattered.
But the man next to me made me a little sad. I'm sure he paid me no mind during the 8 hour flight but I noticed him. He was traveling with his wife. She was reading and he just sat, looking ahead. No book, no magazine, nothing. He just sat there, virtually the entire flight. I wanted to pull a book (I always have a backup) out of my carryon luggage and thrust it in his hands, "Here! Read this! Lose yourself!" but I didn't. Maybe he is a reader and forgot his book. Maybe he's got a lot on his mind. Maybe he's memorized all of Shakespeare's sonnets and he was reciting the lines in his head. I don't know but he looked bored to me.
Books are magical. They are educational, they are entertaining, they can transport you. You know this. So, why aren't you reading more? Like me, perhaps it's laziness. It's easier sometimes to turn on the TV. But I've made a deal with myself to read more and I hope you will, too. Even just 15 minutes a day--I'm going to make it habit again, and I'm not going to let the likes of Michael Faber get me down. For every Faber, there is an Auster, a Moore (Lorrie, that is), an Estrin, a Nissenson. Buy their books, devour them, and share them with your friends.
Labels: Books
posted by Kay at
4:39 AM
2 Comments:
College ruined me for good books. Too many, too quickly. Now all I can read is Maeve Binchy. It's sad, really.
Oh, and Cooking Light doesn't always have a good ending either. Trust me.
Oh, she's lovely. And books are books. I don't care if people are reading comic books (erm, manga), it's reading. College ruined me, too. I hardly read any nonfiction anymore. Too brainy, I suppose.
That March '05 issue of Cooking Light was really a letdown, wasn't it?
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