I don't remember not being able to read, and then again I don't remember being read to as a child. Learning to read is a valuable and long process that we rightly put our children through at an early age. I was hospitalised at three, and my the time I was transferred to the special school at six, I could read very well. I am guessing that it was nurses that taught me to read but I don't recall.
I know that I was taught to show respect for books. I was told to turn pages from the top corner, not o fold pages, not to bend the books far enough to damage the spine, not to deface them and to handle them carefully. I found out from an early age that in books there were escapes and they helped me through long years of lying in a bed. I read everything that Enid Blyton had written and was deeply ensconced into the world of both the famous five and the secret seven.
I must have read thousands of books in my life and the sad thing is, that very few of them have lodged in my mind. Each book is an experience, a vicarious journey through the mind of an author, Each one carries us away to far off places or into experiences that we may never have nor want to have. I still love to read although I tend to read in bed. Only then can I stay awake long enough to manage several chapters. Reading during the day puts me to sleep.
Many of us who read a lot, would like to write a novel. They say that there is at least one novel inside everyone. I am not convinced that it is true, though we all have stories that may well be worth telling.
I have joined a book club. There must be thousands of them; they seem to be growing as people live longer and have more time on their hands. This is my second book club, I left the first because it was rather stilted and disciplined. There was discussion about the books and that was it. There was never any real social interaction and for many it was an intellectual exercise and a chance to show off their superior intelligence. My current group is far more entertaining. We do discuss the book of course but that is not the sole point. We drink a glass of wine and talk about all sorts of things other than that.
I have also joined a creative writing group, and am on the cusp of joining another. Each session we are given a choice of topics and are restricted to one side of paper. The following session we all read out what we have produced, though there is rarely any real feedback. Everyone makes polite noises and so therein no learning. The group itself is made up of elderly people, some of whom no longer produce anything new, but regurgitate stuff that they wrote years ago. Some write about their lives and some about their careers. One is an accountant; enough said. I do enjoy writing and having a topic set is ideal as that give a starting platform, which is not always easy to find. It struck me today that the number of entries into this blog would be sufficient to fill a book but it would have no coherence and certainly no audience, so I won't go there.
I have difficulty parting with books. I have shelf after shelf filled with books. They are like treasures and each one begs to be read again. I doubt that I will read any of them for a second time but giving them away is almost unthinkable and I find it hard to resist adding to that collection.
I pity those who do not read or cannot read. From my point of view they miss out on so much, but of course the counter argument is that so much time is devoted to fantasy worlds that could be better employed focussing on reality. It is a valid point.
I know that I was taught to show respect for books. I was told to turn pages from the top corner, not o fold pages, not to bend the books far enough to damage the spine, not to deface them and to handle them carefully. I found out from an early age that in books there were escapes and they helped me through long years of lying in a bed. I read everything that Enid Blyton had written and was deeply ensconced into the world of both the famous five and the secret seven.
I must have read thousands of books in my life and the sad thing is, that very few of them have lodged in my mind. Each book is an experience, a vicarious journey through the mind of an author, Each one carries us away to far off places or into experiences that we may never have nor want to have. I still love to read although I tend to read in bed. Only then can I stay awake long enough to manage several chapters. Reading during the day puts me to sleep.
Many of us who read a lot, would like to write a novel. They say that there is at least one novel inside everyone. I am not convinced that it is true, though we all have stories that may well be worth telling.
I have joined a book club. There must be thousands of them; they seem to be growing as people live longer and have more time on their hands. This is my second book club, I left the first because it was rather stilted and disciplined. There was discussion about the books and that was it. There was never any real social interaction and for many it was an intellectual exercise and a chance to show off their superior intelligence. My current group is far more entertaining. We do discuss the book of course but that is not the sole point. We drink a glass of wine and talk about all sorts of things other than that.
I have also joined a creative writing group, and am on the cusp of joining another. Each session we are given a choice of topics and are restricted to one side of paper. The following session we all read out what we have produced, though there is rarely any real feedback. Everyone makes polite noises and so therein no learning. The group itself is made up of elderly people, some of whom no longer produce anything new, but regurgitate stuff that they wrote years ago. Some write about their lives and some about their careers. One is an accountant; enough said. I do enjoy writing and having a topic set is ideal as that give a starting platform, which is not always easy to find. It struck me today that the number of entries into this blog would be sufficient to fill a book but it would have no coherence and certainly no audience, so I won't go there.
I have difficulty parting with books. I have shelf after shelf filled with books. They are like treasures and each one begs to be read again. I doubt that I will read any of them for a second time but giving them away is almost unthinkable and I find it hard to resist adding to that collection.
I pity those who do not read or cannot read. From my point of view they miss out on so much, but of course the counter argument is that so much time is devoted to fantasy worlds that could be better employed focussing on reality. It is a valid point.
No comments:
Post a Comment