I’ve been falling a bit behind with blog posts lately – from the mouth of almost every Game of Thrones character, winter is coming. And, to me, winter smacks of lazy – all I want to do is drink copious amounts of tea and chain-read without leaving my bed. It’s certainly not the weather for being productive. So, with that in mind, I thought I’d start a bit of a regular feature thingy on my blog, called Thanks for all the books. It’s just a short post each week about something in the wonderful world of books and reading for which I am truly grateful. I think even I can drag myself out of my duvet-cocoon once a week to write a love letter to the books that are keeping me there.
This week I want to talk about one of best things about books: the way they allow me to experience things I would never normally experience.
“When you read a great book, you don’t escape from life, you plunge deeper into it.” (Julian Barnes)
I felt this particularly when I was reading Cheryl Strayed’s Wild. The cold reality is that hiking the Pacific Crest Trail is something I will never do, and while regret is probably too strong a word for how that statement makes me feel, it does give me certain pangs. So while I may never strap on the boots, reading Wild means that the experience is not completely foreign to me. (It has also given me newfound respect and attachment (in all senses of the word) to my toenails.) Likewise, I may never get my Hogwarts acceptance letter (that one does fill me with regret), but at least JK has let me in to that world to show me (rather cruelly) what I’m missing.
It’s not that reality is so terrible, it’s just that there are so many places we could be and things we could be doing – books let me see and do all of these, from the comfort of my aforementioned cocoon.
Categories: Thanks for all the books