I don't know how to breath any more. I feel inadequate. Whenever I hang out with my friends I always stand awkwardly to the side whilst everyone else socialises. I usually force myself to feel this way. I believe that by distancing myself from the crowd, I am indeed individualising myself: therefore adding another degree to my personality. Makes sense? No? OK, I guess I have to hold your hand through this...
I started reading a new book the other day. It's rather thick(477 pages to be exact, which isn't very long but the print is on the small side), and initially when I glanced at it, I thought the task rather daunting. I've found myself facing the same issue at the start of every book: the reluctance to begin what I know I can't finish. I didn't have the same issue when I started reading The Reluctant Fundamentalist by Mohsin Hamid, and finished it in 3 days. It was rather slow in the book, but after the collapse of the Twin Towers, I found myself boiling a cup of green tea and sipping it occasionally as I concentrated and the string of words spread on the pages. When I finished it, I felt empty. Like a piece of my soul had been devoured. That night, I dreamt of it. I dreamt of the events that unfolded in the book, and how I grew to slightly dislike America even more; resolving to carry my chalice filled with Southern African heritage proudly if I were to ever go overseas for uni.
After stewing over that strange ending for a while and trying to decipher whose side Changez was really on, I decided to take on the task of reading Americanah by Chimamanda Ngozi Adiche. I initially picked it up and a copy of Half of a Yellow Sun with the same starry-eyed gaze I give to other books that are made into movies. I was already swallowed into the bustling world of Philadelphia and Lagos and soon forgot all about how thick the book is and how I should probably get started studying for finals. Once I had reached my goal or reading 100 pages in one day, I shut the book lovingly and reflected on the impact that Chimamanda's words had had on me. It soon dawned on me that at this rate, I might actually finish this book in less than a week and that saddened me.
You see, this book is so amazing that I don't want to keep it to myself. Sometimes, when I read a book that I greatly enjoy, I don't feel like sharing it. I want it to remain obscure so that no one else can come between the bond that the writer and I share. I mean, it's our special connection and this book brought me through the strenuous tentacles of boredom that were strapped around me during this first week of holiday. However, it's an entirely different story with Americanah. I want to find someone, anyone, who will share the same burning love that I feel for these characters. I want to carry the book to class with me next term and hold it close to my bosom as I walk around campus. It will certainly be a great conversation starter. People will stare apprehensively at its bulking mass and ask me how far I am, at which point I will reply; "Ah., but my dear friend, I have already finished it!" (Obviously I won't be as animated. I lack personality and possess the social skills of a manatee.) Then I will add the fact that carrying this book around makes me feel more secure.
It comforts me, you know, having a book handy in your bag. Well, any reading material really. Just sticking my hand into the bag and feeling that reassuring lukewarm temperature of the worn pages and the cool cover of the book brings me immense pleasure. I believe that you can tell a lot about a person from the types of books they read. People who don't read, in my opinion, are not open-minded enough. Reading allows you to enter the world of the author for as long as you desire. You meet these characters and share in their life's story; laugh with them; cry with them; fall in love with them.
If you haven't caught onto what I'm trying to say, then I suggest that you invest in some therapy. Seriously, you clearly don't understand words or people. *Sigh* Basically, I don't want to finish reading Americanah. I want to savour the moment when I turn the yellowing pages of that book and inhale the subtle smell of age. It's funny right? How books always smell like age. There's no way to describe their smell. Magazines smell like carrots and books smell like...well, books.
-"Knowledge is power"
No comments:
Post a Comment