Literature and I

When I was very young, I remember my grandmother lecturing me on the importance of reading, encouraging my mother to make me read, and scolding me when I did not read enough according to her standards. I believe this is probably why as a little girl I despised reading.

I grew up with science etched in my heart. I found the study of the natural world absolutely fascinating. I loved to learn about the processes that allowed human bodies to function and the forces that gave way for the formation of canyons and valleys. Yet, I hated discussions on the themes of books, and settings, and foreshadowing. I found it boring and utterly meaningless.

And (as you can probably tell from my participation in this blog) everything changed. Everything changed with a book. 

My best friend in high school was very much obsessed with this novel that seemed to me to be just another story, as boring and pointless as other ones I had read (in the defense of said novels prior to my awakening, I never really read them with the intention of getting something out of them.) Nevertheless, being the good friend that I was, I decided to read this particular novel he was so taken with, promising him that I would give it a chance.

I was surprised to find that a book that genuinely moved me had befallen on my hands. My relationship with literature drastically changed from then on. I was later able to associate parts of myself with novels, and the characters that were written. I was able to discover the power of words, and how they can touch your soul when carefully written. I discovered things about myself and about human nature, and the beauty within that sometimes surpasses that of the world we can see. 

I developed a fruitful relationship with literature, which I now cherish and hope to cultivate.