As the year winds down I go through my book shelves and make two piles; books that I’ve bought, read and won’t read again that I will give away, and those to sell to a used bookstore. My intention is to make room for more books.
At one point in my life I'd walk through a bookstore and marvel at all the knowledge sitting there, feeling deflated as if I had wasted my life, I vowed to read two books per month. I kept this tradition alive until four years ago in the silence of the Desert, I subscribed to cable television and became a History channel junkie. Having been a listener of NPR for over two decades I now listen to NPR while I cook and clean my kitchen and schedule my tasks according to the BBC World Service and Terri Gross' Fresh Air.
Although I don't believe I'm a media enthusiast, my life has a mix of books, television, films, radio, and some selective news.
Until now- a month short of 2010.
Come the new year I plan to go back to my original goal.
Why? Because I'm convinced not enough people read and when a student admitted this to me, I felt a scream arising from the depth of my lungs. Disappointed, I ask, “Why not”. “Not enough time” he says. I sigh, with a stern expression and a tone that bids beware, “I will tell you one thing, you can't write unless you read. You must listen, take notes and you'll have to work very hard. You are in this class for a good reason. If you don't pick up a book you will dance with death. Books will make you come alive, as guides they will show you the way to your inner world and you will be reborn. Only then will you be able to write”.
He staggers back to his seat and I have a surging flash of panic- is the future of our country in the hands of illiterates?
As I hear myself mentally ranting I begin to hate myself for criticizing- for being so middle class, so comfortable and pampered that I am so shell-shocked. After fighting this war, I become resuscitated by understanding that I can do more by setting an example, books are buoyant with a love of life, like cascading diamonds that gleam waiting to introduce a reader to a hidden treasure.
I love the hunt for fabulous fiction and enjoy going to a bookstore without an agenda in a daze like Alice in Wonderland, I leave myself open and fuzzy to the thrill of discovery, almost shaking from excitement. As an independent shopper if a sales clerk wheels by to offer anything, I'm annoyed from the intrusion. This year my reading titles included:
1.Blind Willow, Sleeping Woman a collection of short stories by Haruki Murakami.
2.My Antonia by Willa Cather
3.Suite Francaise by Irene Nemirovsky
4.Malinche by Laura Esquivel
5.Sister of my Heart by Chitra Divakaruni
6.Queen of my Dreams by Chitra Divakaruni
7.The Young Wan by Brendan O' Carroll
8.The Coldest winter: A stringer liberated in Europe by Paula Fox
9.El tren pasa primero by Elena Poniatwokski
10.Art by Laney Salibury and Aly Sujo
11.The Glass Castle by Jeannette Walls
12.The Bell Jar by Sylvia Plath
13.Seize the Day by Saul Bellow
14.The Shadow of the Wind by Carlos Ruiz Zafon.
I read more fiction than non-fiction, more written by women than men and from writers spanning the globe. This year only one was in Spanish.
Reading is a privilege and a solitary pursuit, a journey unknown. Books hold an uncertainty principle that applies to all areas of thought, life, longing, and faith. It all depends on how comfortable you are with uncertainty, how fond you are of mystery, how willing you are to take the quantum leap of faith that a book requires.
No comments:
Post a Comment