A Homage To Books

(Written October 2018)

Today I finished reading a short story from a book called ‘Six German Romantic Tales’. I started reading the tale yesterday and finished it today while eating my dinner.

I realised that I was experiencing something rare, new. I was absorbed in another world, another time, another place. I wanted to reach the end of the tale. I raced to the end and smiled; it was a satisfying story and beautifully written. A line I stopped and pondered on was; “It’s a tragedy that man has been given his intelligence only in order that he may destroy the innocence of his own soul.” I suppose, recalling studying Germanic folk tales for my A-Levels, German folktales are famed for having a darkness to them.

I then picked up another book which had been sitting on my desk; ‘The World of Lucid Dreaming’. I took the book out on to my balcony and started reading. Again, I was transported to another place and other time. “..I see that we truly are in control of our own universe.” And again I smiled after reading just two pages. I supposed I was and am happy.

When I was a young girl, I loved reading. To be honest, I kind of loved everything. There wasn’t anything my mum gave me to eat which I refused, there wasn’t a subject at school which I didn’t like. I recalled a memory the other day from when I was around 7 years old. There was a Bible among the selection of books in my classroom and all the Muslim kids were afraid to touch it. And I went ahead and picked it up and tried / pretended to read it.

I had one book of my own when I was a child; Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs. I still remember the shape and size and the shiny cover. I read it over and over and treasured it. At some point the house was being cleared up and the few toys along with the one book I had were all packed up in to black bin bags and put in the loft.

When I was 10 I won a couple of Harry Potter Books for having the most table points. I was allowed to keep those, but was rarely allowed to read them in peace. If I did something remotely wrong at home, my books would get taken away from me as punishment.

When I got to secondary school I traded books in for newspapers which I bought with my lunch money. I don’t know who I thought I was; buying The Guardian once or twice a week on the way to school. Ambitious and curious I suppose. Those newspapers were also taken away, but were easier to hide, cheaper and more “justifiable” purchases.

At 16 or 17, I traded The Guardian in for Le Monde. I desperately wanted to learn French and I desperately wanted to learn about the world. So buying a French newspaper was the perfect solution. I could buy one and it would take me a week or two to read through and understand the articles that I was interested in.

At the same age, I started working, and was struggling to cope with my mum’s deteriorating mental and physical health. For at least a year, she would be up all night hearing things and thinking someone was breaking in to the house. It was difficult to sleep let alone study. Getting a job was a nice distraction. And I could buy things. But not books. I supposed I’d given up on books.

In the past 10 years since then, I think I’ve finished no more than 10 books cover to cover. 10 might be an exaggeration. I’d lost my passion for books. I’d lost my capacity to concentrate. I’d lost the safe, comforting feeling of escaping in to another world. It had been snatched away from me and every single time I picked up a new book I felt overwhelmingly sad, and helpless. As if there was no point in starting in the first place.

I’m not proud of the fact that I passed my English Literature A-Level through skim reading books for the quotes I needed. I wasn’t interested in the books. The only book from that course which I loved and still love is Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein.

Speaking of poetry; I thought it sucked. Even though when I was young I wrote poems and even short plays and stories. I wrote poems about love, of course. Then the thought that anyone could take my diaries and read my deepest heartfelt sentiments poured out on paper, terrified me. So I also stopped writing.

I grew up in a space where reading and writing were punishable. That’s why, I suppose I was so determined to get to university. Despite countless interruptions in my studies, despite having left home, despite needing to work full time, I begged my old sixth form to let me study alone and sit two years’ worth of exams without having to attend the classes. They allowed me and I got the grades I needed to go to university at age 22.

It didn’t take long for me to realise that I had trouble reading and processing academic texts. And even more trouble writing. It often felt like there was a huge puzzle in front of me which I couldn’t solve. But It wasn’t as simple as that. Perhaps because of the inaccessible nature academic texts, I decided somewhere inside myself that I would only read what I absolutely had to and write only what I wanted. What a rebellion.

If I had to read something then I would make sure that I wrote something provocative about it. Not for the sake of provocation, but because I wanted it to be worthwhile. Within a few weeks, I would source my own books and resources. I liked the idea of interdisciplinary writing. It felt like freedom.

It didn’t take long at all for my writing to start ruffling feathers and so in my fight for my right to free speech, I was left with no choice but to leave. I felt choked by the need to self-censor, the lack of space for freedom of thought, and I couldn’t bare the idea of getting myself in to debt for the experience.

Everybody else, seemed to be riding waves or more accurately unicorns of “radical” left-wing self-righteousness; saying whatever they wanted, disrupting whatever they wanted, occupying whatever they wanted. But I, not belonging to any such cult or clan, wasn’t allowed to say let alone write and publish what I thought.

Even if I was wrong about something, I didn’t expect to be punished, but unfortunately, that was the case. At 22 I entered university and wrote first class essays and at 24 I left because my perspectives were deemed unacceptable.

And so again, I stopped reading and writing. It’s been 4 years. This year, since moving to Turin on my own, I’ve found myself in search of answers to questions which my experiences have thrust in front of me. All the whys I finally have some time and space to explore and answer. Why..? Why am I experiencing this? Why did I meet this person? Why am I here? I suppose all of the above indicates that there is a price for freedom. It is not cheap. I toiled and sacrificed to get to this point. I left a lot behind, especially when it was difficult.

I began reading a lot of non-fiction. A lot on psychology, history, mythology, philosophy etc. It was only yesterday that I started reading fiction again. Two types to be precise; a piece of literature, and a book which recounts people’s Dreams. How lucky am I? It feels like a treasure again and I don’t fear it being taken away from me.

When I sit to contemplate the world, I’m often in awe of the interconnectedness of it all. That these days things are finally starting to work out for me. After what seems like many lifetimes of struggling and fighting while trying my utmost not to lose my principles, my honesty, my perfectly imperfect Self, I’m finally reading and here I am writing.

Books, it seems, are things we take for granted, much like the clean water that comes out of our taps, and furthermore time itself. Today, while sipping on a glass of water I vowed to place prominence and value on books and not other things. I imagined my flat scattered with books held open with hair clips, marked with postcards, pens and whatever paraphernalia…