Read, Write, Live

 

My first brush with literature, as I was told much later, was courtesy of an illustrated copy of Kipling’s “The Jungle Book”. It had certainly not been the only story I had heard and enjoyed as a child but it had unquestionably been my favourite. According to my mother, I had her read it to me so often that I managed to memorise it entirely, word for word. Even before I had learnt how to read, I would sit with the book and recite the story from memory, turning the pages at all the right times. This of course I have no memory of, but I do remember that I have always adored stories.

However, it was not until second grade that I fell well and truly in love with literature. At school we had just been introduced to the concept of a novel by means of “The Fantastic Mr. Fox” by Roald Dhal. I had certainly liked it but I cannot say I was hooked. Then a friend recommended “Matilda”. The tale of a brilliant child who overcame the numerous challenges that were put to her and remained kind and compassionate despite them ensnared me. I was completely fascinated. To this day the book (that same old copy, read and reread a million times and always treasured) holds a position of honour in my heart and on my bookshelf.

I had unwittingly walked down a path with that book, made a choice without even knowing I stood on a fork. I don’t think I ever had the ability to turn back. I know I don't have any inclination to make the attempt. The path is hardly a straight one, and there have certainly been quite a few obstacles, roadblocks, dead ends and wrong turns along it, but it is mine. It has taken me through much of history and long into the future, around the globe and beyond it, showing me more than I ever could have imagined. And yet it stretches ahead of me, too long for my journey to ever end.

I had discovered a love of books and my world has been infinitely richer since.

In sharp contrast to prose, my love for poetry evolved gradually. I had definitely enjoyed certain poems before but I had never immediately committed myself to them or truly looked beyond their façades. That had developed over time, so stealthily that I had never noticed, until one day it was there. Drama is a more recent form for me and I fear I have not yet developed the same appreciation for it as I have for the former two, though of course there have been individual plays that I have been fond of. (Naturally, my interest in prose and poetry is also hardly universal. There have certainly been texts that bored me, ones that I found myself abandoning and even those that I never picked up. But of the ones that I have read, the majority have been a positive experience for me.)

There is something extremely powerful in words; in their ability to transport you elsewhere, to touch the very essence of what makes you “you” (some would call it soul, others heart or mind).  It awes me to think that someone wrote these words, perhaps for themselves or for others but not for me specifically, and yet they are perfect. Even more mind-boggling is the fact that there exist thousands of human beings, living and dead, who have read the same words and often have loved them too (though the reasons to do so may of course vary). To the best of our knowledge, this skill, this gift, is unique to humans (at least amongst all animals on earth) and it has definite links to our success as a species. If nothing else, then in this we are blessed.

I am awed also by the actual observable impact of Literature. Words may not truly shape reality but they do affect our perception of it. I love the fact that literature can serve as a tool to express political opinions, highlight social evils or demand equality. Certain works of literature (The Bible, The Quran, etc) have influenced humanity in both comradery and war for centuries. The invention of the printing press was a catalyst for the Renaissance. Every authoritarian regime that achieved even moderate success had the foresight to ban or burn “undesirable” books, and every revolution began with ideas on a page. And, of course, there is the predictive power of my absolute favourite genre: Science Fiction. I love the dichotomy of literature, of how it can be useless and invaluable at much the same time.

In my opinion, there are very few pleasures greater than that of reading a good text. Every new work is an undiscovered country to explore at my leisure. Every old work is home, except it’s a home that still has secret passages and hidden rooms that I had previously missed. There is something otherworldly, something magical about them.

After reading, came the next logical step: writing. I have written poetry, prose and drama for school, for exams and for competitions. Sometimes they turn out to be better than I had expected. Sometimes they are disappointing. Occasionally, I write for myself. I wrote my first poem when I was 7, a nonsensical story of a fat cat and my various attempts to feed it. Short stories followed not long after (just as nonsensical at first though). Now, both of these are the most common (arguably only) modes of artistic expression that I employ. While I have never thought of myself as a poet, author or even essayist, I do find the experience rewarding.

Literature is a part of all our lives, but it has carved out a special place for itself in mine. I have devoured texts and they, in turn, have devoured me. I have stood unaware on calm seashores only to be pulled into the ocean’s depths by riptides I could not expect. I have peered over the edges of tall cliffs only to fall as the solid rockface that held me breaks. I have been forcibly ripped away from my peaceful room to battlefields both literal and figurative. I have lost myself and been found changed forever, if only subtly. I have drowned and I have flown, I have laughed and I have cried, I have learnt and I have pondered; in short, I have lived. A thousand lives for a thousand works, I have lived.

And I still find myself breathlessly anticipating more.