Reading

So I've been doing a little reading. I read one of my new books, A Long Way Down by Nick Hornby and currently I'm in the middle of In Cold Blood by Truman Capote. I love reading, really I do. The only reason that I'm able to think clearly and hold a semi decent conversation with people is all due to the education I recieved from books. I'm not sure what happened to me as a child or that magic watershed moment was...but I'm glad it happened, I'm glad I turned into a reader. Some people read on occasion, for class or because they see Oprah raving about something...and then there are others who truly lose themselves to novels and autobiographies. They get both very happy and very sad when they have to say goodbye to characters on that last page of a particularly good read.

School is a corrupt, misguided form of daycare. School only taught me one thing and that was the mechanics of reading. How to do it--the alphabet and the like. After that, everything (okay nearly everything) I ever learned that was of any interest or value I learned on my own from a book. I have two sisters. One is a year younger than me, and unlike me--she's only just now discovered books. She isn't dumb or anything...I can just see a difference between myself and her...and that difference is reading (and books). She reads now to escape...these really awful, crappy romance books. But that's okay, because escapism is exactly what I wanted when I first began my descent into los libros all those years ago. I hope I'm not coming off as too arrogant. There have been times when I thought I was the smartest person I knew...those days, I'm sad to report are long over. Actually, I'm not too sad about that. It's good to know you aren't always the best and brightest. It makes you humble...and it makes you work harder.

Anyway, I worry about my youngest sister (who is 11) because she doesn't like to read. Oh, she loves collecting books--she has a huge pile of them, but my parents have to twist her arm to get her to read. I tell her over and over, "The only reason I'm as smart as I am is because when I was little I read books." I say this to encourage her, but it's not working. And frankly, it wouldn't have worked on me when I was her age. I just know that if I could find the right formula of author, subject, whatever...she'd go ga-ga for the world of books just like me. I care about her and I see how much my other sister has struggled with school because she didn't dip her feet into the land of books.

I'm reminded of "A Prayer for My Daughter" by William Butler Yeats. We read it last semester in British Literature. To summarize Yeats, the world is going to hell in a hand basket...soon! The only thing that will stave off the darkness is culture and tradition. So Yeats hopes his daughter will marry a man of class and sophistication so that she'll be safe in his garden of high society. At the time I didn't understand where Yeats was coming from. Now I think I do. The world is a competitive, scary place. It really freaks me out. Even if I never amount to anything, I'll always have books to help keep me sane and happy. I want my little sister to have that same safety net.

I'm wrong, of course. Just like Yeats was wrong about the upper class and their traditions being the only thing that can save society and keep the torch of civilization burning. What a crock of shit. But I still can't help wanting my sister to take comfort in the thing that gives me comfort (like Yeats wanting his daughter to hide in comfortable society, the thing that made him feel safe). Still, I'm going to try and be more "pro-active" about this whole reading thing. I think I'm going to start reading to her some, before bed. That's how I think it all started for me. Maybe we'll take turns reading chapters or something. It can't hurt any. Anyway, I'm going to go back to my little book.

My island.