why read anyway?
the impact of ownership, passion & stories
It’s no secret that books, DVDs, and CDs are some of the only physical totems of our interests that we own. Here I will be discussing books and the impact, at least what I have felt, of reading.
The rise of reading being incorporated heavily into social media platforms has created a wider exposure to books, especially fiction. When we set aside indirect compulsions to read 10 books per month, that is when we can really view why we chose to read in the first place.
So let me propose this question to whoever is reading this; why did you pick up that book?
Whether this impulse was plucked from boredom or general intrigue, we forget what entails our passion for it. I, for one, read mainly fiction — it has occurred naturally through wanting to submerge myself into a story. Honing in on the discrepancies and small details of my day becomes too exhausting, and like my other hobbies, reading provides that gateway to lunge into the pit of the unknown. My own adventure, if you will.
It has also become a challenge for myself. I found recently that even though I tell myself I want to read more classics, I drifted to more easier, less ‘daunting’ material. But who cares! Challenging myself and widening my knowledge has become desirable to me. Excitement wells up in me when I understand — perhaps even resonate with — a piece of literature written all those years ago. Even the thought of it fascinates me.
Another point of why laying my eyes on a cluster of words is so important to me, is to absorb experiences that are not mine. I wish I was the type of person who ‘wants to experience anything and everything.’ Yes, there is so much I want to experience, yet I prefer to gain knowledge and let other’s experiences and stories soak into my synapses. I bear witness to individuals’ strengths and weaknesses, their flaws and givings. And most importantly, the words they release, no longer theirs, that have been kept and unkempt in their own sacred tomb.
For rampant, fleeting thoughts and outputs of existence to be structured like a clean swipe of a dirty tabletop. That is what most enamours me.
The final act that I experience when reading is more of a complex one to explain. Every fibre and cell of my being feels as if everything is complete when I love a book. When I truly want to go back to one, time and time again in the future. That is what I hope and wish when I pick up one of those paperbacks bought from a charity. It is to know the words will never fade, yet you allow the pristine condition to be battered and love and kept. To be loved is to be worn. To wear out your favourite piece of literature is so crucial and envied.
In an era, or rather, world, of digitalised lives and curated existences, I believe it is paramount to batter your books. Not intentionally of course, because one can then argue that is the act of feigning, feigning for a past and future that has not yet happened. What I am saying is, wear your books out! Mixed and matched pixels from rectangular screens may tell you subliminally that everything you own should be clean and polished, but they don’t have to be.
You can count every line of splintered paperback spines and dogeared pages and messy black ink thats partially running out. These all reminders that you own what you own, you love what you love. And of course, you read what you read.