Reading keeps our moral compass on its toes, as we find similarities in characters we don’t respect – or do. It opens us to thousands of careless words, thoughtful gestures, reactions to perilous (or delightful) situations, miscommunications, to and froing in liquorice all sorts of relationships and we judge our book characters and turn that judgement on ourselves. We grow with each read.
These are trying times, but the big things take care of themselves. It’s the little things that make us smile, laugh, weep, feel. Don’t put the little things on the back burner, push them to the front of the queue. Let’s remember how rewarding it is to read a book. They take us away to other lands, away from the world. They teach us new words. Who would have thought refulgent, which sounds icky and repugnant, means shining very brightly? We revolve through the gamut of emotions, the full spectrum of the human condition, all the while we place ourselves in our characters and let our subconscious shave the edges to place us right there.
And the imagery. We’ve all seen a movie adaptation where the character looks nothing like the one we had in mind. Movies tell us what to see, what to think. Books allow us to build on descriptions and create our own world. We each see different mountains, different gritty streets and different faces, even though we read the same words. It’s up to us to create the rooms, to amble through our own forests, to smell our foods, to engage with our version of the characters who we love or loathe freely. We choose to be inspired, disappointed, to cry.
Each book is a different experience and they sit on our shelves waiting patiently for their turn. It’s easy to forget they’re there. They don’t batter you with shiny tantalising snippets like our screens. They’re not in a hurry; but we should be.
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