Readers,
I like the idea of describing a life through books read and unread. So, apropos of nothing but my own musings (read: self-indulgence?), here are three times books failed me and seven times they didn’t, in no particular order.
(1) First Grade - Readers, this may (not) surprise you, but when I enter school for the first time I am not an instantly popular child. In fact, my own mother has gone so far as to call me ‘a huge nerd’. But in first grade, I don’t yet need friends. I have “My Side of the Mountain” by Jean George and it seems that, like Sam Gribley, the only friend I’ll ever need is a peregrine falcon that I have raised from a chick into a fierce-but-loyal bird of prey. Unfortunately, I cannot find any falcon chicks.
(2) College - A child of two countries, I am American and not. In my first year of college I feel the “not” strongly. It is clear to all - in my not understanding how mundane squirrels are, in my ambivalence about Cinnamon Toast Crunch cereal, in my saying rubbish bin not garbage can, in my routinely failing to grasp the complexities of the social situations in which I find myself. I am at sea in a giant country whose history is infinitely nuanced. I read “The Fire Next Time” by James Baldwin and begin to understand what it is to be an American.
(3 - a failure) The Golf Course - I find myself, during my second semester of college, homesick. I read everything I can that is set in New Zealand. I read and read. But none of it satisfies. Succumbing to my melodramatic instincts, I go sit alone on the golf course at school to feel less claustrophobic. I realize there are no words that will make me feel like I am on my farm, looking at the mountain, feeling the northwest wind on my face.
(4) Nashville - For the first time in my life I am quite lonely. I know no one except my three newly-met roommates. I am sweaty all the time. It is unclear why I am there, doing an internship I barely researched before writing my application. But, during my bus rides to and from work, I read all of Jane Austen’s novels, one after another. I laugh out loud in the stifling bus. I am either hysterical, or, maybe, I am finally understanding Austen. I move on to Wuthering Heights, Jane Eyre, Middlemarch. In that strange Southern city, I take joy in a world even stranger than my own.
(5) College Again - I have gotten myself philosophically muddled. In part, this is symptomatic of taking myself much too seriously, and, in part, it is a genuine crisis of faith. Two back-to-back seminars on American pragmatism and social justice theory have taken me apart at the seams. I read “The Will to Believe” by William James and start to piece myself together again.
(6) Backseat of an Uber - I discover early in my professional career that what limited interest I have in “chatting” must be wholly dedicated to the demands of my job. I discover shortly thereafter that there is no greater source of salvation, upon settling into the backseat of an Uber, than an open book in my hand and headphones in my ears. Try chatting to that girl, I dare you.
(7 - a failure) Christmas - Finally, when I am much older than is reasonable, I come to terms with the knowledge that only a tiny percentage of people enjoy receiving books as gifts. This is less a failing of books than of people. Nonetheless, I am at a loss for Christmas presents.
(8) Two AM, anywhere - I read, at random, from the middle chapters of “Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire” for the ten-thousandth time. We’ve both been here before. We both know our role. Harry, to be quietly distracting, to shut down the spinning excel figures and instant replay of every socially awkward interaction I’ve had today. Me, to pretend his valiant efforts are going to work, and I really am going to drop off to sleep any second. Harry always delivers. I rarely do.
(9) New York City - My great uncle is dying and I have come into the city to see him. I wait in his hospital room for my aunt and grandfather to arrive and decide what ought to be done. My uncle is mostly sleeping but I read aloud to him for hours, quietly, in the ICU. We are both lovers of books, and, at a loss for words, I borrow someone else’s.
(10 - a failure) Melbourne - This time, when I move apartments, I move all my books. I am tired of throwing them away. Weeding them - as I did when I left college, left the US, emptied my childhood room - is emotionally draining. My new apartment is too large. My books fail to fill it up, fail to make it homey. I finish unpacking, and head out to buy more.