Work Text:
Bibliophile FOREVER
(C) September, 2011
My neighbor was showing off her Kindle that her son got her as a gift, and she was all happy about it, and she suggested I get one for myself, considering I like reading. And that right there was the point…
I like…no, LOVE…reading BOOKS. Not electronically scanned ‘pages’ that you read on a gadget that is the same size as my calculator, but actually BOOK books, the ones with spines and paper and all sorts of lovely covers.
I grew up reading, my mom instilled that love in me at a very young age, and every Saturday we’d go to the library to check books out. Mom would leave me in the children’s section to find books for myself, and she’d head up to the adult section to pick out her own books. To this day, I can still remember the smell of the library, a combination of sunlight and dust and old paper, and I can still recall the bright mural that ran along the stairs that led to the children’s area in the basement. Our library was an original Andrew Carnegie library, complete with stone pillars and lions on the front stoop and that serious and hushed air inside.
And it was because Mom started me on reading early that it gave me a good backround for school, for when I started kindergarten, I was reading at a fourth grade level already, and they honestly had nowhere to put me as far as reading classes went, because all the other kids in my class were reading at the levels of their age. That was how it went throughout my school years; by fifth grade, I was reading at a college level, and by high school, I was the one who scored the highest every year on my Iowa Tests of Educational Development in reading/comprehension/spelling, and that was out of ALL the kids in my whole school.
And books have been my friends for all that time…I hated school, for I was tormented mercilessly by my classmates for being quiet and shy, and for most of my years in junior high, I had no friends to speak of, so I began bringing books to school to read when I was alone at lunchtime or free periods. I often got into trouble with my teachers too, who often thought that my reading selections were above my level of comprehension, or they took offense that I was reading risque books like Forever Amber or Peyton Place or Gone With The Wind. Too many times I was asked by teachers if I understood what I was reading and if my parents were aware of my selections, and the answers were always yes. I remember getting into trouble for bringing William L. Shirer’s book about the Nazi party, The Rise & Fall Of The Third Reich in to read in eighth grade, and a teacher was horrified I was reading about Nazis, so she contacted the principal, who contacted my parents, and we had a conference about what was and wasn’t appropriate reading material for a thirteen year old girl. I was forbidden to bring the book to school again and I got a week’s detention out of the deal, mostly because I argued that they couldn’t censor or control what I could and couldn’t read, because that was a violation of my rights. Which apparently I did not have in junior high.
But reading is what also got me into writing, which I began doing in those dark years of junior high when I had no other friends but my books. Writing gave me the chance to explore my own imagination, providing me a world in which I could be myself, without anyone judging me or teasing me or bullying me. I learned that the power of the written word can often be stronger than a voice can be, for the written word cannot be ignored like voices sometimes can be. So my words became my voice, and by the time I hit high school, I was writing stories and poems on a regular basis, earning myself a prize spot at a very highly regarded writer’s conference in our area. I still wasn’t cool or popular, but the kids who tormented me also found that you didn’t fuck with me when it came to writing, because in five minutes’ time, I could create a poem or short little piece that would put them in their place. And as much as I hated them and they hated me, they at least had to respect THAT kind of talent, because not a single one of them could do what I could do with writing AT ALL.
However, my point is not writing, but reading books. I admit, I don’t like the Kindles and Nooks and other electronic doodads that do away with books, because I have to HAVE a book in my hand in order to EXPERIENCE the author’s message. It’s the weight and the feel of the pages and the cover in my hands…hefty or slender, paperback or hardback, I love the covers and backs and inner flaps that describe what the book is about and gives a brief author bio…oh some of the covers I’ve seen are literal works of art, lavishly done productions that convey what the book is about in graphics, while others are plain and belie a humbleness. Look at some of the paperback editions of J.D. Salinger’s Catcher In The Rye. The version I first read was a maroon shaded cover in paperback, with gold lettering for the title/author, and that was it. The version of Kathleen Winsor’s Forever Amber I first read was a beat-up paperback with a scantily clad, plump bosomed woman on the cover. First version of Margaret Mitchell’s Gone With The Wind was specifically a library edition, with a green bumpy cover that had a picture of a plantation house and a girl in a big foofy dress, speaking to a man on a horse. What a variety of worlds right there on the covers.
And then there’s the smell…new books have that delightful scent of fresh virgin pages and newly pressed ink, and when you riffle the pages, they make that crackling sound as they unbind from one another, coming open for the very first time in your hands. And older books have that smell that speaks of history…sometimes it’s musty and dusty, other times it just has that smell that says it’s been used and enjoyed many many times, by many many people. I do have to admit though, I hate checking out a book and finding it’s saturated with either perfume or cigarette smoke, for both of those odors are huge migraine triggers for me, so there have been books I’ve had to return to the library without reading them, much to my dismay, just because I can’t stand the overpowering stink of someone’s cologne or smokes. I also hate it when I find someone has spilled food or drink in a book, and again, I’ve had to return books unread because some idiot has dropped cheese pizza in it. FYI, if you damage a book like that, do offer to replace it if possible, because it’s not right to destroy someone’s property like that and then pretend you didn’t do it.
And lastly, there’s the pages of the book..I love the physicality of turning another page, but I love even more the way I get LOST in the pages, entering the world the author is graciously allowing me to inhabit for a bit. I have honestly lost all track of time when reading sometimes, I get that engrossed in a book, and I think there should be a term for that sense of resurfacing into reality once you’ve reached the end of a novel…it’s parts loss and confusion and despair as you realize that you are no longer riding in sleighs in snowy Russia with Lara and Dr. Zhivago, or fleeing a burning Atlanta with Scarlett and Rhett, as Melly and her baby, and Prissy and little Wade cower in the back of the ramshackle wagon. Many people don’t understand that sense, but then, they often are not readers themselves, so they don’t know the joy of what it’s like to dive into a novel and immerse yourself so completely, that you become the main character, at least for an hour or two. And as many that don’t get that, I’m sure there are many more who do, who are bibliophiles and great readers, who know how to appreciate a book from front to back and all the adventurous pages in between.
I’m one of them…thank God. So no e-readers for me, I’m strictly old school when it comes to reading books. And I always will be, too.
Now excuse me while I go escape from reality for a bit…I believe I left one of my favorite private eye characters in a bit of a dangerous mess, so I’d better go start reading and see if I can save him.