Skip to main content

On Reading & The Art Of Living Vicariously

One of the things I regret the most is that I cannot remember the first book I consciously read. I recall a lot of the books I read as a child, including the abridged Shakespeare plays and dreary Charles Dickens novels. The one I seem to remember most fondly is the massive book of scientific experiments and trivia, including some of history's grandest mishaps. Memories of this book still swim fondly through my consciousness, even though I've lost it a long time ago. I'm even often reminded of it by my parents, telling me how I used to spend hours reading the damn thing, even if I didn't understand half of what it included.

Strangely, most of my high school and early undergraduate years were marred by a deplorably reduced rate of reading; I read maybe a book or two every year, and to this day I cannot quite place the reason for such behavior; perhaps it was the immense pressure such years entailed in terms of workload, perhaps I'd lost contact with the 'Me' who found reading copiously interesting and entertaining...or maybe it was just dumb luck. I cannot place it, but I know it's there.

Graduate studies seemed to propel my book addiction back into overdrive, strengthened by the massive bouts of boredom I suffered at the time (which in retrospect clarify how badly I messed up during those few months, but perhaps that's a tale for a different post). I was suddenly devouring books again, and the feeling was inimitable. To this day, I still look at the veritable towers of books that I haven't touched yet, and the thought itself fills me with unmitigated glee.

Books have existed for a very long time, much like music, and while I'd be hard-pressed to pick a favorite, I cannot overemphasize how important such literary existences are for me. Yes, I do realize that my favoritism towards fiction, and particular flavors of fiction at that might be a bit limited, but I am of the opinion that fiction easily paves the way for one to appreciate all sorts of writing.

We read books for all sorts of reasons, but perhaps the most prominent of those are information and escapism. The first is easy to explain; books contain information about all sorts of issues; scientific, political, theological, cultural, etc. If you wanted information, you sought the appropriate book. Sure, the Internet has long since diminished that role, and even the argument that one cannot take the Internet with him everywhere has been diligently wiped away. But still, if suddenly lost the Internet - a prospect that must've caused a few of you to shudder - we'd still have books. A relief, right?

and we also read for escapism, for the brief moments when we forget about life's worries and lose ourselves in the world so deftly woven by an author or a wordsmith. We watch them overcome adversity and triumph over obstacles we'd never come to face, but the danger and the worry is real and fresh, and you cannot help but want to be there with those poor souls, those weary protagonists.

But, aren't we already there? In the act of reading and living these experiences, we might as well be facing evil alongside our favorite characters. I've lived vicariously through all sorts of books; I've accompanied Frodo and Sam on their journey to Mount Doom, I've fought alongside Aragorn and listened to Theoden's speech in the Pelennor Fields. I've seen Russian magicians and wizards and werewolves, and saw them traverse the twilit ways unknown to mere mortals, I've cheered the Horde on, and marveled at the alien nobility of the Protoss. I've laughed at Arthur Dent's foolishness, and shared his longing for Fenchurch.


And I, though I'll die before you see me utter those words in real life, have always wished I was Harry Potter's bookish (and slightly brilliant) friend.

We might have each been born with a single soul, but we now have infinite worlds within us, constructed simply out of a little bit of imagination...

...and a whole lot of paper.

Comments

Popular posts from this blog

On Missing People & Why We Don't Make Sense

The human mind is a very curious thing. I'm sure my prior posts have given you at least some insight into mine, and that - as hard as it may be to believe - is not as strange as it gets. This might be somewhat shocking, but maybe if you take a seat and a few deep breaths, we can get through this together. Now then, it has been brought to my attention how insidious missing someone is, you don't realize that it's happening, and you might even be doing so conscious effort to NOT do so. And yet, you're just sitting there, and  BAM! You realize that you do miss that person, and that you wish you could see them again. The annoying thing about this is that sometimes you have no idea why you'd miss them in the first place. I mean, there are some truly horrible people out there - I don't mean that we tend to miss the horrible ones only, but bear with me. There are people with whom you've shared some truly unforgettable (at least for you) experiences, and then fo...

A Quote On Humanity and The Nature of Life

I've just finished Cloud Atlas, and there was this quote near the end of the book that I felt the need to share. "Scholars discern motions in history and formulate these motions into rules that govern the rises & falls of civilizations. My belief runs contrary, however. To wit: history admits no rules; only outcomes.  What precipitates outcomes? Vicious acts & virtuous acts. What precipitates acts? Belief. Belief is both prize & battlefield, within the mind & in the mind's mirror, the world. If we believe humanity is a ladder of tribes, a colosseum of confrontation, exploitation & bestiality, such a humanity is surely brought into being, & history's Horroxes, Boerhaaves and Gooses shall prevail" (Those are examples of villains in the book.) "You & I, the moneyed, the privileged, the fortunate, shall not fare so badly in this world, provided our luck holds. What of it if our consciences itch? Why undermine the dominance...

On Loneliness & Questions Without An Answer

One of the most annoying things about writing is when you cannot articulate how you feel in words and phrases. The emotional spectrum of human beings is far larger and wider than the vocabulary provided by the English language. This does not take into consideration the abundance of medical and psychological terms, because while these may manage to describe symptoms and statuses, they fail to reflect the true essence of the state: the emotion. I am currently faced with a monumental task here, that of describing how I feel. Some readers might find this a bit redundant, since my very first post was entirely about my thoughts and feelings, and how they figure into the process of writing. But, it's been some time now, and I'm more confident in my capability to write. What is suspect at the moment is my capability to discern how I feel. What bothers me at the moment, is the fact that I feel immensely alone. This is not an attempt to whine, nor is it a cry for help, sympathy or p...