The Consolation of Books

I discovered reading at a very early age - according to my mother, I learned to read at three accompanying her to the grocery store, sounding out and spelling brand names of soap and cereal. That should conjure up a bit of the weirdness of our consumer culture and its influence on young minds, especially if you were young in the 60's. Without the benefit of the constant barrage of television, children's programming and early learning programs, at that time children who learned to read before actually going to school were either strange or prodigal, take your pick.

On the Family Dysfunctionality Scale, with a 1 being a Norman Rockwell fantasy and 10 as a page torn from the Charles Manson scrapbook, my family was a definite 7.5. No surprise that my favorite hiding place was behind a book. And the library was always free.

During my childhood, on every occasion where some unspeakable family drama was playing out on the stage, you could always find me in the wings, reading, because books were there to lift me away and transport me to a glorous past or a barely imagined future - at the time it didn't really matter, as my dearest wish was to escape the unbearable present.

They were my first love - through them I sought a defense against reality; and, using the wisdom I found within sentences painstakingly chosen and precisely typeset, I slowly realized I could build a fort around myself that in time would be completely unassailable, all through the power of words.

Books were my teachers, friends, confidantes - when I was young and impressionable the protagonists I discovered in stories were heroes of fantasy and history, leading adventurous lives filled with cunning plans, spearing their enemies with a rapier wit and occasionally a well hidden dagger.

Those long ago stories gave me hope - reassurance that I would indeed grow up and live the life I envisioned, that I would be able to rise above my mediocre roots. They gave me a sense of destiny, a longing to achieve above and beyond myself. They provided a road map away from despair, toward a trail leading to enlightenment.

With age and experience my vision of the spectrum of human emotion and knowledge broadened, yet even now I still experience a deep and visceral thrill when opening a promising new book; anxious to dive into fiction, eager to learn of a forgotten slice of history or an obscure biography which has consumed the author for years of research and writing, or a tantalizing new scientific or sociological theory.

However, I'm often disappointed with a book that could have used judicious editing, or a storyline that veers off into tangential alleys that makes it completely unreadable, or some egregious nonsense that should never have been published - with a speck of kindness I gently slide them metaphorically against a wall, rather than literally hurl them towards solid objects with great force.

Yet, hope springs eternal. Books have given me their trust, withholding nothing, and in return I find I can deny them nothing less.