There's a certain magical lightness when it comes to having a book in your hands. It is of course a subjective feeling; some people's hearts leap with joy, some regard it as just another day at the office and some look at it with such petty disposition. They are not to be blamed, obviously. We all have our passions and it is not right to belittle any of them.
I remember being taught to love reading by my parents. My father, when I got the chance to meet him, would take me out for a drive in the mornings. He'd stop at a store and buy a newspaper, The New Straits Times usually and while it would have been easier for him to immerse himself in the black and white pages of the news, he'd urge me to read to him while he drove. I was not very bright which led to a lot of mistakes but he'd correct me and told me to continue. For awhile, I hated those trips because news was boring and I stuttered and there were so many words that didn't make sense but in retrospect, where would I be without it. My mom would take me to the library, I can't remember if it was on Thursdays or Saturdays, and for such a hard, stern, severe woman, I was always consoled at the fact that she never denied me the right of choosing what I wanted to read. She would just give me a quizzical look whenever I handed her a strange book, sometimes I picked one that was obviously meant for children younger than me or something that didn't match her academic expectations. She'd ask me if I was sure and if I was (Read: Never), she'd say okay.
I learned to turn to books whenever I felt alone. I never learned how to make friends correctly or rather, how to keep them close and keep them happy. I never had the chance, my mother was a bit... Overprotective, I would say and while there is a reason for that, I will not divulge it. In a sense, I believe that even if I was given ample playmates, I couldn't manage to make sense of the whole friendship idea. It was too hard, too complex and too petty. I never could find a group in which to belong and feel connected. I tried, and failed and tried again and eventually found myself uncomfortable with people.
And all the while, books were there to keep me company. It was perfect in a way that the more I paid attention to it, the more I was rewarded. I didn't need to be nice or coy or polite, I didn't need to put on a hundred different masks to face it, I didn't need to do anything. It needed no caressing or loving or teasing to open up to me, although I found myself doing all of the above later on. Perhaps I have a knack of needlessly injecting sexual tension into everything. (Edit: This practice is highly recommended.)
I feel a great sorrow for people who regard books and readers as things that should remain in the confines of the past and at the same time, I loathe the inability to tell people why they should read. It is impossible to verbalise what goes through my mind, any reader's mind, when I read. How exactly am I supposed to explain to people that I, a grown man, could still be moved to tears when I reach the end of 'The Little Prince'? How could I quantify the utter shock that I received when I read Murakami's Norwegion Wood? (Yes, that part, you know what I'm talking about) How is it remotely possible to try and tell a person about the pure awe that one feels when one reads Tolkien's legendarium?
I have experienced a whole new spectrum of emotions that I never even knew existed just through reading. I have fallen in love (Tolkien's Lúthien, Gaiman's Death, MMKnight's Rabeya) and I've abhorred (Kundera's Tomas, Salinger's Caulfield, GRRM's Sansa Stark). I've been aroused by characters who are, quite plainly speaking, not sexual at all (Fucking Delirium/Delight). And much, much more. Sometimes I honestly believe that I continue reading simply because there might be an author out there somewhere who could introduce me to a new unexpected emotion.
More than anything, reading makes me feel like I belong somewhere on this strange, blue planet. Reading books and knowing that somewhere, sometime, someone else went through the same feeling as they flip through the pages, consuming the slick words, dancing with the poetry. I feel accepted for once, with all of my flaws and shortcomings and insecurities, accepted as whole.
This is why I am so fond of readers, even strangers. They understand, in a sense. I have been told that I am exceedingly possessive when it comes to my books but the truth is that I am very generous to those who are truly earnest in learning. I would gladly part with my books, no question, but there are many who show no respect whatsoever to them. They ignore the value of old books, they break the spine, they tear or dogear the pages, the term 'Out of print' makes no sense to them and you cannot expect me, in good conscience, to readily gift my books to these people. It is absurd to put my faith into the commonly used phrase 'Just relax, they know what they're doing'. Now I know I might not be the exemplar of taking care of books but it is much more than just making sure it's in perfect condition. It's how you treat the books, that's what matters the most.
At the same time, it's not all sunshine and rainbows. My relationships in the past always broke down and I attribute a major part of it to the other party not being well read. Of course, I have been told that I am 'naturally an asshole, a hypocrite and a coward who uses big words to cover up your insecurities' and while I do not deny any of the allegations (Reinforce them even), I must say that being well read is a very important aspect.
Books are sacred. They have always been portals into strange and wonderful dimensions in an age where the technology does not exist and they will continue to help the minds of the populace soar through the skies of a different age until the end of time.
I am sure that some might read this and applaud my use of hyperbole but it is not so. None of this is hyperbole. I might not have a traumatic story about how books saved my life and that I will eternally be grateful to them but it does not take a tragedy to recognise a blessing.
Books, man. They're the best.
I remember being taught to love reading by my parents. My father, when I got the chance to meet him, would take me out for a drive in the mornings. He'd stop at a store and buy a newspaper, The New Straits Times usually and while it would have been easier for him to immerse himself in the black and white pages of the news, he'd urge me to read to him while he drove. I was not very bright which led to a lot of mistakes but he'd correct me and told me to continue. For awhile, I hated those trips because news was boring and I stuttered and there were so many words that didn't make sense but in retrospect, where would I be without it. My mom would take me to the library, I can't remember if it was on Thursdays or Saturdays, and for such a hard, stern, severe woman, I was always consoled at the fact that she never denied me the right of choosing what I wanted to read. She would just give me a quizzical look whenever I handed her a strange book, sometimes I picked one that was obviously meant for children younger than me or something that didn't match her academic expectations. She'd ask me if I was sure and if I was (Read: Never), she'd say okay.
I learned to turn to books whenever I felt alone. I never learned how to make friends correctly or rather, how to keep them close and keep them happy. I never had the chance, my mother was a bit... Overprotective, I would say and while there is a reason for that, I will not divulge it. In a sense, I believe that even if I was given ample playmates, I couldn't manage to make sense of the whole friendship idea. It was too hard, too complex and too petty. I never could find a group in which to belong and feel connected. I tried, and failed and tried again and eventually found myself uncomfortable with people.
And all the while, books were there to keep me company. It was perfect in a way that the more I paid attention to it, the more I was rewarded. I didn't need to be nice or coy or polite, I didn't need to put on a hundred different masks to face it, I didn't need to do anything. It needed no caressing or loving or teasing to open up to me, although I found myself doing all of the above later on. Perhaps I have a knack of needlessly injecting sexual tension into everything. (Edit: This practice is highly recommended.)
I feel a great sorrow for people who regard books and readers as things that should remain in the confines of the past and at the same time, I loathe the inability to tell people why they should read. It is impossible to verbalise what goes through my mind, any reader's mind, when I read. How exactly am I supposed to explain to people that I, a grown man, could still be moved to tears when I reach the end of 'The Little Prince'? How could I quantify the utter shock that I received when I read Murakami's Norwegion Wood? (Yes, that part, you know what I'm talking about) How is it remotely possible to try and tell a person about the pure awe that one feels when one reads Tolkien's legendarium?
I have experienced a whole new spectrum of emotions that I never even knew existed just through reading. I have fallen in love (Tolkien's Lúthien, Gaiman's Death, MMKnight's Rabeya) and I've abhorred (Kundera's Tomas, Salinger's Caulfield, GRRM's Sansa Stark). I've been aroused by characters who are, quite plainly speaking, not sexual at all (Fucking Delirium/Delight). And much, much more. Sometimes I honestly believe that I continue reading simply because there might be an author out there somewhere who could introduce me to a new unexpected emotion.
More than anything, reading makes me feel like I belong somewhere on this strange, blue planet. Reading books and knowing that somewhere, sometime, someone else went through the same feeling as they flip through the pages, consuming the slick words, dancing with the poetry. I feel accepted for once, with all of my flaws and shortcomings and insecurities, accepted as whole.
This is why I am so fond of readers, even strangers. They understand, in a sense. I have been told that I am exceedingly possessive when it comes to my books but the truth is that I am very generous to those who are truly earnest in learning. I would gladly part with my books, no question, but there are many who show no respect whatsoever to them. They ignore the value of old books, they break the spine, they tear or dogear the pages, the term 'Out of print' makes no sense to them and you cannot expect me, in good conscience, to readily gift my books to these people. It is absurd to put my faith into the commonly used phrase 'Just relax, they know what they're doing'. Now I know I might not be the exemplar of taking care of books but it is much more than just making sure it's in perfect condition. It's how you treat the books, that's what matters the most.
At the same time, it's not all sunshine and rainbows. My relationships in the past always broke down and I attribute a major part of it to the other party not being well read. Of course, I have been told that I am 'naturally an asshole, a hypocrite and a coward who uses big words to cover up your insecurities' and while I do not deny any of the allegations (Reinforce them even), I must say that being well read is a very important aspect.
Books are sacred. They have always been portals into strange and wonderful dimensions in an age where the technology does not exist and they will continue to help the minds of the populace soar through the skies of a different age until the end of time.
I am sure that some might read this and applaud my use of hyperbole but it is not so. None of this is hyperbole. I might not have a traumatic story about how books saved my life and that I will eternally be grateful to them but it does not take a tragedy to recognise a blessing.
Books, man. They're the best.
1 comment:
Not being well read enough plays a major part in the death of your relationships?
I haven't met enough guys that are well read, that when I do meet one, its instant love. At times.
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