"That's what I love about reading: one tiny thing will interest you in a book, and that tiny thing will lead you onto another book, and another bit there will lead you onto a third book. It's geometrically progressive-all with no end in sight, and for no reason other than sheer enjoyment." Mary Ann Shaffer and Annie Barrows, The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Society
I just finished this sweet and heartwarming/heartbreaking little novel. Its format uses letters written between characters to tell the story of an island off the southern coast of England that was occupied by the Germans during the second World War. The stories of survival and loss are told with humor and a deep sense of what it means to be in real community. I recommend it.
The paragraph above, which comes very early in the book, caught my attention and I had to jot it down. It so describes my experience as a life-long lover of books. It started early for me. As an elementary aged child, I loved the library. I loved how it smelled, a combination of paper, mustiness and the perfume of older women. I loved the silence of it, how whispering was the norm, as if to speak out loud in the presence of all these sacred texts held captive was the gravest of sins. I loved the tidiness of the rows of books, their alphabetized nature, the glowing, dusted shelves. It represented for me order of the highest form.
But it was, of course, the books themselves which won my heart. Like the character Juliet in the novel, I, too, would be taken by an author and then systematically read everything they had written. It somehow seemed to me to be the proper thing to do, like paying homage to a saint, trying to soak up all the power of their words in hopes of finding one more kernel of truth. Of course, I did not start with 'great literature'. I began my systematic reading with the Trixie Belden series by Julie Campbell, stories of a young sleuth who solved mysteries in seemingly miraculous ways. Trixie was younger, less sophisticated than Nancy Drew. More like me. I began with one and devoured the rest throughout one, hot and humid summer. Another summer I moved through all the biographies of famous people in history. Clara Barton. Betsy Ross. Sojourner Truth. Those books, all lined on the shelf, were numbered, by a certain publisher, and I moved from number one through the twenty or more that held lives that inspired me. I stood taller at the end of that summer, literally and patriotically.
As an adult I have done the same things with other authors: Sue Monk Kidd, Barbara Brown Taylor, Anne Lamott, J. Philip Newell, Marcus Borg, Anita Shreve, John Shelby Spong, Karen Armstrong, the list is endless. These authors become friends of sorts much like friends I haven't seen for a long time. Their next book helps me get a glimpse into their lives, what they've been thinking and learning, how their beliefs have changed and taken new shape. what new insights they may have had since 'last we met.' It might seem crazy to some people, this systematic,'geometrically progressive' act but it brings me such joy and connects me to a world that seems so much wider than the one of my daily life.
What are you reading these cold, winter days? Are the words of a favorite author taking you to places you've never been before, experiencing things you may never have the courage to do outside the pages of a book? What books bring you pleasure, may you laugh, inspire you to be a better person? How is the gospel, the good news, of another's life calling to the greater good in you?
As January draws to a close, there is still much of winter left. These are good days to visit your local library and meander down the aisles of possibility. There are books that will take you to places you never imagined. Others will challenge you to live a fuller, richer life, challenge the status quo. Still others will simply let you laugh out loud, cracking the ice on your winter days.
It's a slippery slope. But the falling is so wonderful!