“The Internet is so much better. You can just Google everything.”
I cringed as I overheard this at a bookstore. Perhaps, given the full context of the conversation, it wasn’t as bad as it sounded; but I wanted to give the small child with this person a book and show him the magic and wonder that lives on the pages.
It’s more than just books though–it’s about reading. Not a casual read of a tweet, not a cursory glance of a blog post, not an eye scan over the newspaper.
Deep, soak-it-into-your skin reading.
I read because even I, a nearly-off-the-charts extrovert, have been tempted to use the excuse of, “I’m reading a really good book” to miss or leave social situations.
I read because even as I type this, I’m only half here. Half of me is, and has been for the past couple of days, in the world created by the pages of my book. It is a book I have read before–the ink on the pages has not changed since last time I’ve read it, the plot and outcome will remain the same. But I am not at the end yet; I am right in the thick of things with the characters I have come to know and care about. There is an urgency to get to the end I already know, to make sure that my memory has not failed me and all will be well.
I read because there are stories and ideas I would never come up with on my own, places I will never walk with my own feet, worlds that exist in imagination only that I cannot get to any other way.
I read because a fantastic book doesn’t leave me the same when I close it as when I opened it.
I read because I can, and I can’t imagine not.
Til next time…~Brianna!~
p.s. Why do you read? (or not read?)