Reminiscing

Why do the first 100 pages of a book disappear in the blink of an eye and yet the next however many hundred pages always seem to go on forever?

Whether for better or worse, I’ve encountered this strange phenomenon for what feels like aeons.

Whilst I suspect there is probably a psychologically sophisticated answer, I ask more out of the desire to discern whether the sensation is shared.

I realise that reading is not for everyone and perhaps unlike many ardent bibliophiles I don’t believe there’s anything wrong with that.

Nevertheless, for those of us who find reading pervading our proverbial path, there’s nothing more wonderful than curling into a corner with our favourite companion.

I’ve grown to be increasingly envious of ‘real’ bookworms, like my sister, who picks up almost anything and tears through it in a matter of days. She has the rare and honed flair for reading at all times; with the television on, with the dog barking, whilst holding a conversation, in between baking brownies and so on.

Once upon a time, that was me too.

Now I find myself reading only a pinch of pages before gently falling into the clutches of sleep.

Still, those few hundred words mean just as much to me.

With reading possessing so much cultural currency, now it seems more important than ever to remember it doesn’t have to be performative.

The feeling of professing genuine passion for a tome and passing it onto another is second to none.

But we shouldn’t ever feel as though we have to read ‘this’ or ‘that’. And in an ideal world, there would be a ban on the phrase “I should read faster/slower/better/more.”

Anything that’s meant to be an escape deserves to be devoid of the word ‘should’. The whole point is that it’s a release from the world of chores.

In this case, it’s about simply reading and remembering why you enjoy reading.

And if you don’t read, it’s about pursuing whatever else it is that makes you happy.

Because the thing is, it’s the greatest privilege to be able to listen to people speaking sincerely about the excerpts of life that they love.

The infectious enthusiasm for reading emphatically confessed by Fi Glover, Jane Garvey and Marian Keyes during one particular episode of Fortunately is an exchange that not only seems apposite to mention here, but is one that will stay with me forever.

Amongst their many utterances were the following:

“Anyone who teaches a child to read, well what a gift that is.”

“You’re never alone when you can read, you will always have a friend.”

“It’s a unique relationship, between a book and a reader. It can’t be replicated. It’s utterly beautiful.”

I remember my Mum teaching me to read.

I dread to think how many nights a week she readily sat with four-year-old me, carefully placing keywords on laminated sheets sent home in my reading folder.

I’ve since learned of her apparently infinite patience on evenings where we’d repeatedly tackle the latest instalment of ‘Biff, Chip and Kipper’, on account of my infuriating tendency to only be content once I’d read every word without mistake.

I recall battling our way together through young adult ‘classics’ too, concealing our confusion with laughter as we found various novel forays oddly tedious, contrary to popular opinion.

My memory holds reels of footage of my Dad reading the Foxwood stories to my sisters and I every night as we went to bed, his varied voices bringing the characters and their tale to life in the twilight.

In hindsight, I find it funny that my Nan once read the first chapter of Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s Stone to me and that I decided I didn’t like it.

She must have introduced me to it just a touch too early; little over a year later, that volume and those that followed took their place among my most prized possessions.

I can’t help but notice that if it wasn’t for all these authors putting pen to paper, I wouldn’t be able to tell half as many stories of my own.

Marian Keyes was right. If you’re susceptible to reading, it truly is “the greatest gift.”

And one that keeps on giving.