Literature and Life

“As Hagrid had said, what would come, would come . . . and he would have to meet it when it did…”, my mom gently closed our copy of Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire, as I sprung up from my previous sprawl on the floor. Idashed across the house to secure the next installment of the series, determined to start tonight. Alas, it was past my bedtime and my mom refused to budge, despite my pitiful begging and elaborate propositions. What she said next shattered my wee kindergarten heart: “These books are getting too mature, you can read the rest when you’re old enough to do it alone”. I was devastated. My mind was still lost in another world, where witches and wizards drove flying cars, and fought bald, noseless villains in mysterious British cemeteries. Such a realm was far more compelling than a day in kindergarten, and it had all been ripped away from me in one tortuous go. Lying in bed that night, feet propped against the ceiling while my sister snored beneath me, I schemed. Books can’t read themselves, after all.

My will was unshakeable, and in first grade I read each of the Harry Potter novels independently. I had conquered the universe of 20th century Wizarding Britain, and it opened my eyes. Soon I was trekking onward, devouring tales of greek gods, and clever horses, and little girls on the frontier. I fought off enemies in the arena with Katniss, and pilfered manuscripts alongside Liesel. I lived a million lives, and collected legions of friends. I was never far from home, because home was just inside the cover of the nearest book.

By 3rd grade I had found my tribe: my very own nerd squad. The Lovett Elementary Name That Book team was tiny but fierce, and for 4 years we reigned triumphant. Each semester we spent months poring over a list of 30 children’s books, until our mastery of their stories was absolute. I thrived, surrounded by people who shared my passion, and from then on my bibliophilic nature only grew.

When transferring schools, the first friend I have found has unfailingly been the librarian. I truly do not know where I would be today without these wonderful women. Throughout high school, the library was my sanctuary, a place to escape the misfortunes of teenage life. What better way to avoid your troubles than by immersing yourself in the adventures of Dorothy and Toto? What’s more, my books have habitually helped me connect with my peers. You’d be astounded to realize how many new conversations you might have, simply by toting around a peculiar looking paperback.

While considering my devotion to literature, one will invariably come to the conclusion that my love of people proceeds directly from my love of reading. The characters in the books I’ve read are as diverse as the individuals around me. As a result, I’ve come to personally appreciate people from all walks of life. In essence, books taught me empathy. Reading a novel allows you to understand characters and their lives intimately. Story after story, I learned how to look past the surface to honestly identify with people. When I was a kid, I always wanted to be able to talk to my favorite literary protagonists. As it turns out, talking to actual people is just as remarkable. I find pleasure in hearing other’s stories- they are fantastically intriguing.

Every book I’ve read has influenced who I am, just as every person I’ve ever met has had some affect on me. Without my proclivity for literature, I would not be so gregarious or sociable. I would not be as confident, or as eager to see and hear and do new things. My mom used to joke that I lived inside books. In reality, inside books is where I learned how to live.