I often feel sorry for people who don't read good books;they are missing a chance to lead an extra life.~ Scott Corbett ~
I've been reading like a crazy person lately. Hundreds of pages in one sitting. I suppose this proves I have no life, but I do enjoy it. Is the definition of life simply enjoying whatever you're doing? If so, maybe I do have a life every now and then.
Every so often, I forget the unadulterated joy that lies in a book, until I randomly pick one up that reignites my need for literature. Sometimes it's a classic, with ancient words and lexiconed lines and enduring characters. Sometimes it's something nobody's ever heard of, randomly plucked from the library shelf in the between-classes rush. No matter where it comes from, the words of another person brings emotions out of me I don't typically get from anywhere else. Maybe that's why I love reading so much. I can live vicariously through Elizabeth Bennet, Winston Smith, or Cassandra Mortmain. I can experience the bizarre real lives of David Sedaris and Augusten Burroughs. I can entertain the advanced thoughts of Vincent Campbell or Joshua Halbertan or Anna Quindlen. I can go places I never get to go.
Then why is it I forget this every so often? Does my life get interesting suddenly, and I don't need a fictional fix? I think we can rule that one out. I don't really know. Maybe it's so I can feel the full greatness of rediscovery. Time and time again, this is the one source of comfort that can never be changed or removed.
Now, I think I'll go finish my book. =]
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