The Perils and Joys of Reading

As a fifteen year old, I remember a teacher saying that reading allows us to experience a plethora of places and situations that would be impossible otherwise. She was right. Unlike other teachers, she gave us Dostoyevsky and Tolstoy to savour. I am forever grateful, Ms Prima.

Before that stage, Enid Blyton filled my reading hours and did me no harm, whatever the critics now say. I loved her stories of a world that is long gone, even then. Comics were frowned on at home and so ‘proper books’ took pride of place.

Reading lets me dwell in the minds of writers who would not cross my path in the flesh. It is like armchair travel of ideas and emotions. It certainly isn’t passive as was spouted by a colleague once. I still feel the indignation. If you are involved in the book, it is not a passive experience. I doesn’t happen to you, but with you.

Seriously, I feel sympathy for those who do not read, ever. What do they do with themselves? How do they exist without climbing into a book for at least an hour a day? In what other ways, do they use their brains? To those who say they don’t find books interesting, I say that their search borders on the flimsy. There is a book for everyone who can read. It is a book that acts like a key to open a door to other books. Giving up too soon is a poor excuse.