My long lost love
and I have reunited
Hello there, world. It’s me, Linh. My rambling and I are back. This time, we would like a word with you on reading.
My favorite gifts were books and puppies. My parents favored books over puppies for the ease of transport and the lack of poop. As I sat behind either of them on their scooter on the way home after school, I made silent wishes that they would make a stop at the bookstore. Once in a while, they would, and I would be allowed to pick up some books. This set a precedence for my twenty something years of being a bookworm later: bookstores captured me with some kind of serendipity force. I wandered in, not having a slightest idea what I wanted, then wandered out with a handful of books, always feeling happier than I had been 30 minutes before.
I wonder how people develop their “taste” for books, because I don’t seem to have one. Some books came to me at the wrong time, and I didn’t like them at first. Little Women was one example. I got it when I was eight. I didn’t really care for the story or the illustrations of the March sisters. I read the book again a few years later, after I grew out of the stage when everything pretty must be colored in pastel. It became my favorite then. (I loaned it to a very close friend and received it back with torn cover and sharpie marks on the pages. I don’t think I ever get over that.)
And then there are books I loved as kid but not so much later. Should I call some names? Will some of you hate me forever? The Alchemist. Zorba the Greek. Maybe I have grown into an overly shallow feminist, or I have let the bitter truth of life drag me down and could not enjoy life-changing, philosophying books that me from the past once praised as deep and refreshing. Maybe some day I will change again. But until then, my diplomatic apologies to fans of The Alchemist and Zorba. We can still be friends, right?
Not only individual books, my genres also changed, or should I say, fluctuate. I did not at all like non-fiction as a youngling. Description of scenery and people was so boring. I wrote poetry but did not read much of verses and rhymes. I did not care to get into someone’s head to understand what they were trying to say in their writing, nor did I care to explain what I wanted to say in my writing. Writing was some kind of supernatural sacred thingy that should be instantaneously enlightening. You either have it or you don’t. There is no forcing. That was what teenage Linh thought.
In some way, writing is still a supernatural sacred thingy to me now, but it also expands into an art to be appreciated. And I have learned to appreciate non-fiction, starting with science books, then digressing to essays and memoirs. When I was back home, I picked up a collection of writing by a non-fiction author I remembered disliking when I was in school. As I read through the slim volume, I understood why they said he had a knack for “style” and describing people and things.
I haven’t read for a while. Graduate school has felt strangely like a child between a hurricane and a hibernation. I was so busy, I was so occupied, I was so stressed. And at the same time, I was so lazy — mentally lazy. My mind, once had been relatively sharp and contained a sense of humor, became somewhat like a puddle of still water. I didn’t read because I would feel guilty using my precious time to read something for fun while my work-related readings remained untouched. I didn’t read because I didn’t have the perfect reading nook, an afternoon to spare, a cat on my lap, and a hot chocolate to sip on while I immersed in haute couture literature. I didn’t read because if I picked a bad book, it would be a waste of time. So on and so on.
Eventually, books had no patience for me anymore. They found their way into my hands. I read a book, then it lead me to another. As it turned out, I didn’t really need to have all my work done to feel like I deserve a good book. The couch served as a decent reading nook as anything else (I read in the bathroom all the time as a kid. Who else?), and my cat sometimes helped by curling up in my lap. As for bad books, I did have a few in my “to be read” pile. When I reached them, it usually took me about two chapters to move them into the “to be donated” pile. And they didn’t scar me for life.
I didn’t remember how much reading had done for me. It wasn’t exactly joy or enlightenment or nirvana. It was more like a workout, or a bath, or both, for my mind. Have you ever felt so sore after a long workout after months of not going to the gym? Gosh, doesn’t it feel so good? I agree.
So, what are you reading?
