My brain is not content unless I’m reading something. This is not a sign of intelligence. It’s a sign of perpetual boredom/potential depression. Not that my life is bad, because it isn’t. And not that I want more events/work to fill my days, because I don’t. The puppy who desires to destroy our new Ashley furniture and the three kids who need me to teach them are enough. (Husband doesn’t add any work at all. He makes life easier).
It’s been this way since I was a little girl. I suppose some people collect stamps and some people pick scabs. I read, a lot. Our middle son is the same way. No one ever has to tell him to go pick out a book because he’s always working on something. He and I “get” each other in this way.
In India we had no access to a public library so I had to visit the little English book shop in the middle of town and purchase books every time. The selection wasn’t that impressive and often there’d be slightly weird British books lining the walls and Indian books translated into debatable English. There were a some classics, however, and I started tackling some of the titles I’d missed in school or in my sleep-deprived baby-making years while living there.
I suppose that’s why the public library in our town means so much more to me now than it ever has in times past (and that, my friends, is saying something). We visited yesterday and it felt like entering a room of possibilities, as usual. But one thing about possibilities is that there’s significant potential for error. I’m talking about selecting book rubbish. There’s lots of it out there.
And that brings me, at long last, to my point. I’d like to know what people are reading and why. I’m interested to know if anyone has read a book he or she thinks is well worth the time and has, perhaps, made him a better person for having read it. If you have any suggestions, please let me know. My brain will thank you.