I love books. I adore them. I worship them. When it comes to me, you can put any synonym of the word ‘love’ between the words ‘I’ and ‘books’. In fact, I’m going to go ahead and say something positively scandalous: I think books are sexy. Not sexual; no, nothing of that sort. But yes, they appeal to me just as much as tall reedy Italian men with smouldering eyes do. I could marry books. Agreed, a state such as that would probably be considered as an euphemism for spisterhood rather than an example of the institution of marriage. Nevertheless, I need and want books desperately, frantically, incessantly.
All that being said, I have a confession: I have hardly read any books in the past two years. Not even the ones I bought recently.I can see Les Misérables, Crime and Punishment, Jane Eyre, even Poe’s short story collection, looking at me reproachfully. Shantaram is pissed that I read him only once (he’s also pissed about the fact that he is kept on the same shelf as chick-lits). Wodehouse is wondering when I’m going to start the second Jeeves book I own. Arundhati Roy has given up on me (But then she also seems to have given up on writing). I’m afraid I have gone from being a super-reader to being a sloth-with-a-book *gasp*.
I don’t really know what happened. I just stopped reading. There is no proper explanation for it. I moved to T.V. Shows and movies (neither of which, I must admit, have the same effect as a good book). Nonetheless I kept buying books, just for the heck of it. Like I said, I love books; the idea of knowing, having, collecting, and sensing books makes me happy. I love the smell that comes from them, the texture of the paper, the small black print, the beautiful, beautiful covers, the joy that comes in cracking their spines, the feeling you get when you write your name in a book...I cherish these moments, I love reliving them... Anyway, now going back to the original topic - these days I don’t read like I used to. There was a time when I was a voracious reader. Now I’m the bibliophilic-equivalent of a hermit.
I wonder if there’s still hope for me. Can I go back to the original glory days? Can I get my reading streak back? Tough questions I don’t seem to have an answer to. Of course, like any pseudo-optimist, I like to think I can change. My friends – who are as shrewd as they are sweet – have, indirectly, taken upon themselves to get me back on track. They got two Stephen Fry’s and one Dahl (My Uncle Oswald – a book I’ve wanted for a long time) for my birthday. Even my lethargic soul cannot resist something so tantalizing.
Friends, I must say, are miracle-workers. I finished My Uncle Oswald today. Admitted, it is a slim book – but for someone who hasn’t finished a novel in two years, just finishing something is a victory in its own right.
Maybe one day I’ll read books larger than my textbooks. I just hope that doesn’t happen soon. I’m in the middle of my sem finals - I’m not even supposed to blog right now!
Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to cast forlorn looks towards my book shelf and then start studying. Sigh.