The rustling of pages.
August 5th, 2003
I am going to talk today about a great love of my life, reading. I taught myself how to read at around age 3. The first book I read on my own was Green Eggs and Ham by Dr. Seuss. My Mum loves recounting stories about trying to get me to get ready for kindergarten. She'd sent me upstairs to get dressed, and then I would never come down. She'd fly up the stairs and see me sprawled on my bed, half-dressed, nose in a book, holding a sock in one hand and trying to hook it over my foot without looking. I was often late for school.
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My dad used to read us bedtime stories and that was my favourite time of the day. We used to get all tucked up in Weener's room in her bed and Dad would start the book of choice. He started with The Hobbit when we were 3, and by the time we were 4 years old, he had started The Lord of the Rings. I absolutely loved hearing this story. Dad would give every character their own voice, and long after my sister had fallen asleep (which is why we always had to be in Weener's room) I would be fighting sleep in order to hear just a little more of the story. I loved Treebeard, and Frodo and Sam, and the rest of the characters. I remember the shock when Gandalf faced off the Balrog and lost. I remember the thrill when he later returned. I think being exposed to these stories really helped me to discover what friends books can be.
I used to stay up late, reading under the covers with a flashlight until my vision blurred and I couldn't focus on the page any more. I remember when I finally got glasses at age 7, and being told that I only had to wear them when I was reading. That turned out to be all the time, so I wore them every waking moment.
I have a cassette tape recorded on my sister's Fisher Price tape recorder of me (age 6) reading fairy tales from a book I have now lost. All I remember is that it had a peacock on the front cover, and was hardcover with a yellow dust jacket. The bit that is taped is me reading the story of the Crow and the Peacock, where the Crow doesn't want to look all drab so takes the discarded plumes from the peacock and tries to fit them in over his feathers. This tape cracks me up for two reasons: (1) The tone of my voice is complete lecturing schoolmarm and (2) I say "plums" instead of plumes. Hee.
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I lose track of time when I am reading, and I often become deaf. Sometimes I am so fully immersed in whichever world that I miss bus stops or forget appointments. If I have to put a book down the story gnaws at me. Every moment away is a torment, as I just want to run back and find out what happens. I will make excuses and blow off jobs I need to do because in my brain, finishing the story is paramount. Thus, I tend to consume books at one sitting because I can't stand putting them down. This is both a blessing and a curse. A blessing, because I read rapidly and even if a book bores me I know I can finish it quickly, and a curse because I always am looking for something to read. It is a compulsion. I read cereal boxes and newspapers and magazines, even if nothing interests me therein. I feel sometimes like I need words cycling through my brain to act as a filter or even a prime to fuel my own thoughts. I am an empty sighing room full of shelves that desperately require content.
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If a book has really moved me or tickled my fancy I often find myself appropriating bits into my external life. Chocolate is forever Theobromos (said in a particularly reverant tone) in my head after reading Kage Baker's books (go read them! Do!). I often find myself wanting to say Plock! Plock! nonsensically as a result of reading Jasper Fforde's wonderful novels about Thursday Next. From a series that I can't with certainty even tell you the title now, I have retained a curious mental banter about points and the awarding thereof for particular verbal sallies. Many others I am sure have become so buried that I don't even realise where they have come from. I kind of like that.
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I am going to put another coat of paint on my deck chairs today, and I might even get to the bookcase. It's a darling little painted bookcase from the 1940s and I keep all my old books in it. The rest of the furniture in the room is all mismatched antique things that I have painted black to hide repairs, damage and to unify them, so this little case will join the rest. The black will set off the faded jeweltones of the old cloth bindings perfectly.
Approaching Kilter has been updated today. I went on a little bike adventure with Chris yesterday.
Books I have Read Lately:
- The Isle of Battle by Sean Russell. I was intrigued after reading the first book, about a land with another shadowy land dislocated and held in stasis above it. The children of the River Wyrr (which used to be a sorceror named Wyrr) Caibre, Sianon and Sainth who have been existing as nagar (river-spirits) have managed to make bargains with three mortals and are reborn. Caibre wants to kill the other two and will stop at nothing, even bringing the mortals of the One Kingdom into war. It ended on a cliffhanger, similarly to the first book. More questions have been raised in this installment, but I finished this book with a sense of emptiness and dissatisfaction. Nothing really happened, and not much was resolved, and I didn't feel that there was even character development to balance the lack of plot development.
(All links go through Amazon.ca because of the affiliate program with The Usual Suspects. I spend so much time on there, that this is the least I can do.)