Often I tend to assume everyone had similar experiences to
me growing up. Intellectually I know
that is not true. However I am sure
there are some commonalities of the lives lived among the people I have as my
friendship circle.
One experience that seems to me would have to be a shared
one is that moment when you discovered you loved reading. Lawyers, advertising gurus, bureaucrats,
political operatives, college instructors these are all callings, these are all
professions that require you read capably. You only come to capable reading by
doing copious amounts of it. And you
only get the skills to read like that was because once a singular book caught
your attention. The words within that leather or cloth bound binding sucked you
into the joys of discovering a good story.
When I was looking for illustrations for my last post I came
upon an image from The Merry Adventures of Robin Hood. Immediately as I looked at it I was transported
back to the third grade. There I was at that exact moment when Miss Gleason had
allowed me to take a copy of that old chestnut home with me. Once opened the
book the words and graphics transported me to a different place and time. The people around me ceased to be. Suddenly by following those black lines
strung together into words and sentences I was
in medieval England just after the Norman Conquest. Lush and verdant was the hardwood forest
known as Sherwood.
Scenes from that book have stayed with me, like Littlejohn
and Robin Hood fighting with staffs on the log.
And then there was Robin being carried across the river on Friar Tuck’s
back. These were just delightful scenes to me. What images I have come from my
imagination and not the Errol Flynn movie.
Having read the Merry Adventures the movie felt flat for me. It was not the story my imagination had told
me as I read the book.
Working my way through the book I would linger on the
illustrations. I would add so much into
the story from what I imagined had been said and done in the moments before and
after the one captured in the illustration.
The images I found online today sparked my imagination and threw me back
into that book.
When I reached the end of the book I was crestfallen. As Robin betrayed and beaten pulls on his bow
to send his arrow into the wood to mark his burial place I was as sad as a third
grader could be. But the book was a whole, it was a joyful narrative. My
sadness to not stop me from going back to read it again and again. One book sent me on the search for more books
that would feel like that, complete and whole.
Many books try to tell a complete story. Few do it well. The Sound of Waves by Mishima is one. The Demon in the Freezer is another. Good Bye Mr. Chips is a third. But this is not what matters, what matters is
that we all opened a book at some point in our lives and were entranced,
enthralled and taken.
In recent weeks I have been making it a point to get at
least a book a week from the library. I
have been reading fantasy novels, contemporary novels and tales of social injustice. Some of the reads have been fluffy and quick
and some it has pained me to think about what would be on the next page. But I will not stop reading again because
there is a joy in the words.
When I look at the illustration above I see the loss and
melancholy of a hero. Without books so
much of human experience would not be within my imagination.
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