Reflections On Reading

 

“I opened a book and in I strode

Now nobody can find me"

Those are the first two lines of Julia Donaldson’s poem (you can find the full poem in the pic below). And that pretty much captures the essence of why readers read.

In an online discussion group with Ageless Possibilities, we were talking about our relationship with books, and Kerry Clare’s essay came up which describes so beautifully a reader’s journey blossoming into a lifelong love affair.

My love affair with books began early. As a child I LOVED Enid Blyton. In the early years, the Noddy picture books and Brer Rabbit, then the mysteries with the Secret Seven and Famous Five. And the Mallory Towers series. Why did English parents always send their kids to boarding school and why couldn’t mine? Boarding school was where it was at! I longed to go (the reality of course would have been quite different, but children’s imaginations don’t deal with reality). Then there were The Bobbsey Twins and along came Nancy Drew.

During my pre-teens and early teens, my oldest sister used to devour Mills & Boon romances. They were the British predecessor of Harlequin romances. My sister’s friend from the apartment below us would send her two younger siblings up to borrow books. They were the go-between messengers, the actual readers being too lazy to ascend or descend two flights of stairs (no elevator in the building). The two younger girls knocked on our door in the afternoon with their sister’s request for Mills & Boon books where “they got married early in the book.” 

Yes, those were the most sought-after romances where the heroine, for some magnanimous, noble reason (like saving an estate or someone’s family) had to marry a dashing stranger she despised. The heroine, who always had an impossibly flowery name like Jonquil, eventually fell in love with her brooding, gallant husband who turned out to have a heart of gold beneath his crusty veneer. The typical Enemies-to-Lovers trope.

How do I know so much about these Mills & Boon romances? Because I snuck into my sister’s books of course. Later I also snuck into my father’s bookshelves and read all the juicy bits from his Harold Robbins books (The Carpetbaggers comes to mind) and Jacqueline Susann (Valley of the Dolls) and Erica Jong’s Fear of Flying along with Leon Uris’s Exodus and others. It was my dad who ignited my love for books and stories early, with his bedtime storytelling. He was born a storyteller.

But my true love in my teens and early twenties was mysteries. I adored Agatha Christie, the absolute queen of mystery, and read every one of her books, having strong opinions and preferences for Miss Marple’s sleuthing over Hercule Poirot. I was very sad when Dame Agatha died.

And yes, I will admit to reading Ayn Rand in my early twenties and slugging through Atlas Shrugged and The Fountainhead, admiring the egotistical Howard Roark. Good lord! I’ve come a long way since then.

When we were in middle and high school, we used to pass around “Autograph” books where we would list our favourite things, sayings, and ‘hobbies’. I would always put down reading as my hobby. But, of course, as Donaldson says in her poem, immersing oneself in a book is so much more than a ‘hobby’. It is a way of life, a ‘magic potion’. And once you swallow that magic, there is no going back. You are forever wanting more.