I figured, what with running a book blog and a bookstagram (either of which can be considered at least marginally successful) I should probably address the question every bookworm has heard multiple times in their life: “Why do you read?”
Whenever I’m asked this question, I tend to just kind of stare at the person and bumble out a super general and nonspecific answer. “Well it’s fun.” “It’s something to do to keep the boredom at bay.” “It takes me to a different world that’s more interesting than reality.”
All of which is true, but none of the above accurately convey just what reading means to me. And what’s more, the answer is complicated and highly personal. I don’t like sharing the things I most love with most people. I won’t watch movies I love with just anyone. If I’ve watched things like The Lord of the Rings or The Secret Life of Walter Mitty or Midnight in Paris or The Breakfast Club or even Memoirs of a Geisha with you, know that I consider you a very good friend.
So it goes with reading. If I don’t trust you completely (and that’s not to say that you’re untrustworthy — it’s simply that I’m a very introverted person and don’t open up to people lightly) or don’t know you well, then I’m not going to try to explain something that means so much to me. Because what if it doesn’t come out right? What if I make reading/certain movies/music look lame? They don’t deserve that.
And that kind of illustrates what they mean to me. Books aren’t really books for me — they’re friends. I have emotional relationships with not just characters in books but the books themselves. They’re something more than words on a page and they’ve got personalities of their own. I feel grateful to them for taking me to other places or introducing me to new kinds of people and for teaching me how to be stronger.
When I buy new books, or even borrow them from the library, I lug them around with me for a while. Or I’ll look through them each individually. Or I’ll go about my business, but surrounded by my new acquisitions. Kind of like I’m welcoming them into the family. Does that sound weird? I know it might to a non-reader, but I’ve a feeling a lot of bookworms do it. I keep all my books out in the open because when I look at them I’m not seeing books, I’m seeing new adventures and people to meet and places to go and things to learn.
The fact that I’m posting this for everyone to read is kind of in opposition to everything I’ve been saying, isn’t it? I suppose I feel comfortable doing it because 1. Anyone who reads this probably feels the way I do, so I don’t have to worry about being judged or reflecting badly on the reading world. 2. I don’t have to explain to anyone in particular, which is nice because I’m far better at writing my feelings than verbalizing them.
I recently read The Enchanted by Rene Denfeld, and it was beautiful — the writing was superb and read like poetry. But to get to the point, there was a character who loved reading beyond most anything else. And even though he was on death row for committing despicable crimes, he still understood and conveyed wonderfully the beauty of reading:
After a time, it seemed that the world inside the books became my world. So when I thought of my childhood, it was dandelion wine and ice cream on a summer porch, like Ray Bradbury, and catching catfish with Huck Finn. My own memories receded and the book memories became the real memories, far more than the outside, far more even than in here.
So yes. I love reading. Plain and simple.