I saw a charming little movie the other day called `The Jane Austen Book Club’. Despite a clichéd ending where the heroine - runs - desperately- to - the OOA ( Object Of Affection) followed by the usual public declaration of love, it struck a chord. Not just because I love Jane but also because it was about a group of women who form a book club, reading Ms. Austen to escape from the emotional tangles in their lives. In the process they discover characters who inspire them to find insights deep within themselves.
I can identify with that. Literature has a habit of doing that to me. I have curled up on many afternoons with a book and proceeded to completely forget where I was as I laughed, cried, contemplated and reflected over what I was reading, taking what I need to out of it. Some favourites I still read every year, over and over again. It's like re-visiting dearly loved old friends with great pleasure. Some are exciting new adventures into the unknown, waiting to be explored.
Books have always been my best friend. Sharp and witty, warm and comforting, informative, educative, objective, they have shown the way, dispensing advice without talking down to or judging me. They have been a great support in times of need, provided a laugh or two, a cozy cuddle in bed on a rainy evening and above all stimulating company over a cup of tea.
While we all know that books help extend our vocabulary, strengthen self expression and enhance our imagination, I read for the sheer pleasure of it. To escape from my world for a while. I find it wonderful to transform words painted by a novelist into pictures in my head or roll words around in my mouth to see how they feel against my tongue - bluebird, starry sky, roundabout, waterfall, vanilla, or my favourite - magic.
Comic books just never did it for me. They were images already defined by someone else. I wanted to CREATE them. Inside MY head. So for me, words became pictures, stories, adventures. They also took on the role of beloved friends. Faithful lovers.
I read all the classic at age fourteen - falling into hopeless adolescent love with Dickens, Hardy, Thackeray, Austen and Bronte. While the classics are now read primarily in a literature class, I read them perched high in a Gulmohur tree. In the park. In my bathroom.All through the night. In return, they gave me a priceless gift - vocabulary. Vocabulary allowed for me to be articulate.Articulation enabled clear self expression. I see that those who do not care to read remain forever divorced from language and its beautiful nuances.
But even while we speak, there is an increasingly visually led, technology driven world out there that is driving many words to extinction. They are locked in a doomed struggle for survival. Some were mutilated ferociously while still alive - duzz yur mum no yur gng 2 b at da party 2nite ? I don't see anyone holding a placard in Cubbon Park shouting "Words are dying ". "Save the word ! " There is no Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Words when we need one.
The art of flirting relies heavily on language.Those who knew how to use it to advantage, who understood the delightful technique of repartee, how to give the perfect come back line, how to seduce with a word, always got the girl. But flirting too is dead. Go on and write that obituary. But do a spell check before printing, please.
Speaking about dying reminds me that words also introduced me to life. To other worlds. Other people. They were the cheapest way to travel around Peru or anywhere else I fancied. I could taste a recipe without even cooking it. Fall in love with a man even if he did not exist in reality. All within the pages of a book.
So now, whenever I feel alone, I head to a bookstore. I sit there, inhaling the familiar scent of paper. In time I hear quiet voices whispering through pages. Some living. Some long gone. They talk to me. Persuade me to reach out and pick them up. I submit and bury my nose in a book, inhaling paper and ink. I run my hand gently over a glossy hardbound cover. Trace an engraved title with my fingers. Follow the length of a spine, linger over binding. Then suddenly it washes over me. Happiness.And I don't feel alone anymore.
I cannot imagine feeling this way on Kindle.
Image courtesy :Janelle Mculloch,
Penguin, Creative Director Paul Buckley and Illustrator Jillian Tamaki.
