 |
- - 2 . 0 4 . 0 4 |
| Shakespeare, Dante,
Twain, Dickens, Faulkner, Woolf --as an English major, I had the opportunity
to read them all. Yellow highlighter in hand, I poured through American
literature, English literature, two semesters of Shakespeare, plus
books on history, art, journalism, philosophy, and psychology. I read for content and structure. My brain played with archetypes and symbolism. I wrote in the margins, took notes, and searched for ingredients that would later become the 1500 word quoted and footnoted essay. As a little girl, I loved to read. It was one of the reasons I majored in English. But, as you can imagine, I was less than enthused about the endeavor by the time I graduated. "Pleasure Reading" had become an oxymoron. And then last spring...with the inspiration of a New Year's resolution and a week's bed rest, I started to read. Not just pick up a book and read, but sit with a book and enjoy it. Again. I started with The Bean Trees (Kingsolver). And then American Pie (Draoulec). And then Isn't It Romantic? (Hansen)...by summer's end I had read more than a dozen books! My friend DeLinda started mailing packages of her favorites, and I began my first reading list since college. Last fall, I happened upon a book sale on the town green. I stopped and browsed. I picked up a book on scenic highways by National Geographic, and then Charles Kuralt's America, and then... "Excuse me," I excitedly asked the woman seated behind the card table, "Do you take checks?" Her positive response was an excuse to collect The Good Mother (Miller), The Outermost House (Beston), The Poisonwood Bible (Kingsolver)... "Excuse me again," arms full, "Do you have an extra bag?" It has become familiar again--the feel of a book in my hand, the urge to read the next chapter, the companionship of the characters--and I welcome it, gratefully. I have never known any distress that an hour's reading did not relieve. --Montesquieu
|
©2004, Jennifer Payne |