Reading Is Bliss
I love reading letters. In whatever format they now come in - emails, super long text messages, old-fashioned typed or handwritten letters posted in the mail, sealed with a kiss and a promise, letters are often humanity's way of either making sense of the crazy world we live in, or to make contact with the people who matter most.
I suppose I have been thinking about this because of two things: 1) the website Letters of Note, and 2), this tear-jerker of a letter from a dying father to his 1-year-old daughter whom he will never see grow up. I came across it at work and nearly burst into tears upon reading it.
The most powerful quote was the one from the end, where he reflects on his own mortality but also tries to envision leaving words of wisdom for the future 15-year-old he will never know: "When you come to one of the many moments in life when you must give an account of yourself, provide a ledger of what you have been, and done, and meant to the world, do not, I pray, discount that you filled a dying man's days with a sated joy, a joy unknown to me in all my prior years, a joy that does not hunger for more and more, but rests, satisfied. In this time, right now, that is an enormous thing".
While I have many favourite letters by famous authors, one of the most powerful is this plea by Roald Dahl. I don't want to get into any bun fights on the matter of vaccination, but it is hard reading the emotion obvious in the opening to the letter by one of my favourite childhood writers: "Olivia, my eldest daughter, caught measles when she was seven years old. As the illness took its usual course I can remember reading to her often in bed and not feeling particularly alarmed about it. Then one morning, when she was well on the road to recovery, I was sitting on her bed showing her how to fashion little animals out of coloured pipe-cleaners, and when it came to her turn to make one herself, I noticed that her fingers and her mind were not working together and she couldn't do anything".
There's the fun stuff too, of course - like the letters that James Joyce wrote to the love of his life, Nora Barnacle. I won't repeat them here, but suffice to say that they're a little heavier than Mills and Boon, perhaps not so shocking in today's age of freely available soft porn.
Every now and again, as a reader, you come across a book that makes you sit up and pay attention. While I'm no cynic, it is rare for me to find the type of story where you think, the entire time you're reading it, that this is really something special - something that hasn't been tried before.
It's hard to describe Anna Smaill's The Chimes. I could try and categorise it as a sort of dystopian urban fantasy. You can see where David Mitchell, Elizabeth Knox, Angela Carter, Ursula LeGuin, and a whole host of other brilliant literary authors have influenced the writing - but merely to compare Smaill to other the greats would be doing The Chimes a disservice.
For it is an entirely unusual work, so dazzling for the most part that you can easily forgive uneven patches, perhaps even the occasional weakly sketched character. The story as a whole is greater than the sum of its parts.
It is difficult to believe that The Chimes is a debut novel, and I would wager money that Smaill has unfinished manuscripts tucked in a dusty drawer somewhere at home, but I'm glad for her that this is her first published book. Because it's one to make readers and reviewers take notice.
The world of The Chimes is both strange and yet familiar, the hallmark of good speculative fiction. Set in a parallel London, humanity has been rendered docile by something called The Chimes - in my imagination it's an uplifting type of gospel music that flows out of a giant instrument resembling a church organ, and renders people unable to form new memories.
Ahead of the Valentine's Day release of the film version of Fifty Shades of Grey, guest blogger and Kiwi Mum Rohani Alexander muses on the controversial label of "mummyporn"...
"Do you want to do another guest post?"
"Sure, something parenty again?"
"Er. Is Fifty Shades required reading?"
The New Year has rolled round a lot faster than I anticipated. My short break consisted of less reading than I would have liked, interspersed with many periods of sinful sloth, cat bonding, wine drinking, and watching a copious amount of Very Bad TV (Exhibit A: Marco Polo - it's so memorable that I had to go back and check the name).
Due to this, I have decided that my New Year's resolution should be to tackle my growing "to-read" pile. I have set myself the goal of reading two books a week. I knew it was going to be time-consuming, but I didn't realise how tough it could get until last week, when I realised I had spent almost every single night at home since I began the challenge.
I have however, managed to get through a few tomes that's been on my reading list for the past decade: Kurt Vonnegut's Slaughterhouse-Five, Maxine Hong Kingston's sequel to The Woman Warrior, China Men and Khaled Hosseini's And The Mountains Echoed, among others. I am currently slicing my way through Germaine Greer's The Female Eunuch, and a collection of short stories called Wasteland: Stories of the Apocalypse, both of which I have to finish by the end of the long weekend.
It's been a fun challenge, and I guess I began it because life is short, and there are way too many books...but also, I feel better about the world and life in general when I'm reading. There is something about feeling like part of the human condition, a sort of togetherness with humanity that only reading can offer.
I'd like to add new books to my New Year's challenge list too, so it would be great to hear what you think I should be reading.
This is it, folks...'tis the season, the countdown is nearly at zero and Christmas (plus 2015), is just around the corner. I'm not usually a fan of gratitude lists. They feel too contrived, as if life is only worth living due to its sometimes rare moments of joy. But hey, 'tis the season.
So I thought I would do a repeat of last year, and give you my top 5 reading gratitudes of 2014.
1. The ability to read
Occasionally I have to kick my own butt when I'm grumbling about some book-related woe or other. There are shelves groaning with Danielle Steeles I'll never read, Booker Prize nominees (and winners) I'll never agree with, and stream-of-consciousness YA novels written by 16-year-olds "discovered" on Wattpad and poorly ghost-written. When I'm feeling like the Grinch that Ate Bookmas, I have to pause and remind myself how lucky I am to be literate, when 775 million in the world are not. Next time someone tells you they don't like reading, remind them of this fact.
2. Owning books/being able to amass a personal library
I'm lucky enough to have the disposable income to spend on books, when there are far too many places in the world where this would be considered a frivolity beyond words. I'm lucky to live in a society and culture where indulging in book buying is seen as a harmless past-time, where I won't get sent to prison for owning or reading the wrong type of books, and where my gender doesn't dictate the sort of literature I'm allowed to consume.
This might even possibly deserve a blog post all of its own, but I'm thankful for writers. I am so grateful for the artists who have, often, sacrificed things that I myself have not in order to write that story. I'm grateful for the impoverished authors in garrets of days past, and the Hugh Howeys of today who did odd menial jobs so they could save the best of their minds and imaginations for writing the stories I love. Many of the writers I have met are some of the world's most inspiring, intelligent and fascinating people. Long may they prosper.
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