Wednesday, February 26, 2014

Living a thousand lives

When I was a kid, one of my very favorite things to do was read. I loved to pick the next Judy Blume book in line from the shelf at our local library - and if you took me to that library today I could lead you to the shelf - take it home, and read it that same afternoon. As I got older and became an English major, this love for reading served me well. I loved the John Steinbeck, the Emily Dickinson and the JD Salinger. I enjoyed dissecting the Sylvia Plath and the Adrienne Rich. I fell asleep, time after time, face down on the smooth, cool pages of Beowulf, which can be incredibly comfortable if you're tired (or bored) enough.

In the years that have passed, with work and kids to get in the way, as well as the advent of the internet and all things technological, reading has fallen a bit by the wayside. Ok, more than just a bit. This bothers me, not just because as a former English major I can picture one of my professors frowning at my veritable abandonment of the written word, but because I can remember with great fondness just how much I relished it once upon a time. So last year, when New Year's resolution time rolled around, I made a decision to read more. And I did - I read about 5 books last year, which won't win me any reading awards, but was a vast improvement from the previous year's zero. And I was happy about that. This year, I decided to raise the stakes to one book a month. So far, I have read four books and it's still February.

I remember the joy of becoming immersed in a book. That feeling you get when you are transported somewhere else, when you are barely aware of where you are, of your breathing, of even being alive at all. When a book so sucks you in it's like you go into a coma, but you're not asleep - you're in another plane, you're inside the story, not interacting but rather like a fly on the wall who's watching every little thing transpire right up close. And when you love a book so much and it ends, the intense and surprising despair you feel when it's over. I remember when I read Kathryn Stockett's The Help, and as I neared the end I kept casting quick glances to the small stack of pages at the end of the book. "It's ok, I still have several more pages to go," I thought to myself, trying unsuccessfully to extend the experience for as long as I could. Reading eagerly to find out how it would end, and when I suddenly, unexpectedly reached that end, I was crushed. Without warning, I was thrust back into the real world, left hanging with no more to go, and I looked up and around me as if suddenly realizing where I was. Because of my investment in the story (not to mention that awful feeling that I had been deceived by someone I trusted once I learned that several of the pages were for an afterword and dedications) I started to cry a little. I felt like my friends had left me behind and were continuing on in some other level without me. Then, of course, I felt stupid for crying and was kind of glad that those same friends weren't watching.

Many years ago - it has to be close to 20 - I was temping somewhere doing some kind of clerical work. I don't even remember the name of the company or exactly what I was doing. But I do know it was before everyone at work had computers on their desks, before the internet was there to suck everyone in when they should be working, before everyone was on Facebook at their lunch hour (and other hours). For weeks, I spent my lunch breaks in the cafeteria glued to Wally Lamb's She's Come Undone, a massive tome with an even more massive lifetime packed into it. I still recall the day I finished that book at my lunch hour. I closed the book and stared at the cover, lifted my jaw from the cafeteria table, and just said "Wow. Wow. Wow" over and over. And when you finish a story of that emotional magnitude, you look around at everyone else, eating their lunches, flipping through magazines, living their dull little lives, and you just want to shake them and say, "Don't you KNOW what just happened here? How you can you just sit there like that like nothing happened?" But they don't know, and they don't know you, and for that reason, their earth is not shaking like yours is, which is probably why they look so bored and just generally glum in the first place. They don't know what happened, and it's not their fault, but sadly, they weren't where you just were, so they missed out. It's their loss. Or as author John Green put it, "“Sometimes, you read a book and it fills you with this weird evangelical zeal, and you become convinced that the shattered world will never be put back together unless and until all living humans read the book.” EXACTLY!

And as time goes on, many favorites hold a place of honor on your own mental bookshelf and sometimes you don't even remember why. You may remember the general subject and perhaps a few details, but the intricacies of the story and why you fell so in love with it have escaped you long ago. This is the kind of thing that happens as you get older. :) Once you realize this has happened, you know you need to go back and re-read some favorites so that you can experience that feeling of falling in love all over again. This was an addendum to my book-reading resolution - to add in some long-forgotten classics to the ever-growing pile of newer fiction. For many years, Toni Morrison's Beloved held court as my all-time favorite book, and I'm sorry to say most of the details of the story have been lost from me. But it's on my list of re-reads. I recently read John Steinbeck's Of Mice and Men again, and I'm so glad that I reconnected with George and Lenny after all these years. The Winter of Our Discontent is next after I finish Jonathan Tropper's This Is Where I Leave You, which has had me laughing out loud for several days now. Harper Lee's To Kill a Mockingbird is on deck as well, but it may be a couple of months before I get to it. :)

Then there are the new classics that you are so excited to share with others and so pleased to add to your list of favorites... such as Elizabeth Gilbert's Eat, Pray, Love. When you feel like you're experiencing the journey right alongside the author - laughing, crying and having spiritual awakenings as she does - rather than just reading about it, you know you have a classic on your hands. Elizabeth's story was so awe-inspiring it made me wonder exactly what I'm doing with my life. (Which I've been wondering anyway.)

Some days I almost wish it was like the old days again, with no internet available so that I would have more time to read. Once I get going with a good book, I wonder what kept me away for so long. I almost wish for a simpler time where there would be nothing to distract me from my latest literary adventure. Almost.