Nov 6th, 2009 1:32:00pm
Books. Anyone who knows me will tell you I am in love with reading. I love stories. Mysteries; fantasies; tales of love and woe; of demons defeated and heroes born; of the creatures of the night and those that hide among us in the day. This column is inspired by a single book (or rather, the movie production of it): Inkheart.
Those of you who’ve heard of it know its story. The story of a man, Mo, and then later his daughter, who have the ability to read characters out of books. In the movie [which I happened to watch before wanting to read the book itself], the books whispered the words within them, calling out to be read. My question is: Is that so impossible?
I was at a bookstore last week. It is apparently the largest bookstore in the world, and heaven on earth for all bookworms, myself included. So, so many choices.
Overwhelming, almost, this variety of selections. So how do people make their decisions? After all, the books are not displayed with their pages open, so you can find out if you’re going to like the story or not. You have to pick something that looks interesting first.
So, ever wondered how you do it? Run your fingers over a bunch of books squeezed together then suddenly and randomly pick a book you think you might like? Some do it by reading the titles, others just let their fingers do the work. So how is it done?
Excuse my childish imagination, but I believe we all have Mo’s powers to some extent. Ever feel like some books just… call out to you? You haven’t read a word except perhaps for the plot summary on the back cover, and yet you find yourself unwilling to leave without it. Or you cross a few shelves and something stops you mid-step. You look, and you just grab a novel out of nowhere, then a few pages later you can say, “I’m so getting this.”
Perhaps it only is the ramblings of a dreamer who believes in a world more magical than that we live in now, but I like the thought of some stories being meant for us. We’re supposed to read them, love them, dive into them for just a little while and escape the “reality” we’re going to have to face later on. Perhaps I’ve been reading far too many fantasies, but it is comforting to me.
I love books. I love the pages that capture the tales of amazing characters in between the covers. For the longest time, they have been my escape. Whenever life was pressing down too hard, they were my friends. They let me forget, even if it was not for long.
So is it so strange that I also love the idea that some books are destined for me? And that others have books destined for them?
Then again, perhaps it only is the ramblings of a dreamer who believes in a world more magical than that we live in now.