When faced with tough circumstances, stressful situations or overwhelming news, some people turn to alcohol as a way to cope. Others find respite in drugs. Or sex. Or chocolate.
Me? I turn to books. Okay, and chocolate too. And maybe a few glasses of wine. Let’s not lie.
Books have always been a comforting companion to me in hard times. During my tumultuous first couple of years as an undergraduate, during which time I had little to no concept of what I wanted to do, who I was or where my life was headed (er… much the same way I feel today, minus the “Who am I?” part), I would bury myself in book after book, night after night. I even went so far as to read aloud to my boyfriend at the time, under the guise of “reading together.” Little did he know…
When that boyfriend and I broke up after two and a half years, books came to the rescue once again. They were the only thing capable of stemming my tears and putting me to sleep during those difficult days.
When I moved to England, leaving my beloved family and friends behind to start a new life – again, doing god-knows-what – I rode back and forth on the tube to and from work, to and from the crumbling Victorian townhouse I was renting with friends in East London, with my nose in a book. I was afraid, and I needed to find comfort.
Even during my Masters degree, back in Toronto, when I was supposed to be reading four novels each week as part of my curriculum – well, yes, I read those, but I also read about six other books during those eight months for pure pleasure. Why? Because I experienced more stress as a graduate student than ever before.
And now. Now, after my latest break up, books have once again come to the rescue. The book I was reading in the days leading up to the break up has become more dear to me than before, and I continue to read it at every chance I get. By delving into another world full of different woes, triumphs and failures, I am able to gain a better perspective on my own circumstances, and thus to heal more quickly.
Don’t get me wrong: I love my life, and I’m not trying to ignore my surroundings or decisions by reading regularly. It’s just that when times get tough or trying, a good novel not only acts as an easy escape, but often contains immensely valuable life lessons. You can’t really go wrong with that combination. By coping with my stress through the use of books, I have become a better and stronger person. Perspective is everything, and books have plenty of that to offer.
To leave you with a quote:
“Books are the quietest and most constant of friends; they are the most accessible and wisest of counselors, and the most patient of teachers.” - Charles W. Eliot
Friday, March 5, 2010
Sunday, February 28, 2010
What's in a blog?
Last night I hunkered (yes, I said “hunkered”) down with my roommate, her boyfriend and a big bowl of popcorn to watch the film Julie & Julia.
That’s right – the three of us had a lovely date night. But that’s neither here nor there.
The point is that the movie got me thinking about my own blog. Okay, let’s be honest – I think about my reasons for starting a blog more frequently than I should. I love to read other people’s blogs – and in fact have a rather extensive list of strangers’ blogs “favourited” in my internet browser – but I always considered myself to be someone who could never maintain a blog of her own.
The idea of broadcasting my innermost thoughts and the dullest moments of my daily existence over the internet has always struck me as being distinctly narcissistic. And while I still have no interest in maintaining a “this is what I did today” blog, as time goes on and I become increasingly invested in the musings of those whose entries I follow, I have slowly become aware that each blog operates around a theme of sorts – whether intentional or not.
There is a central dilemma at the core of each writer’s entries, and it is because of this that blogs can be so goddamn addictive. It’s like reading a juicy novel in which the central conflict has yet to be resolved. The only difference is that in real life, central conflicts tend to be a bit more difficult to resolve, and the number of obstacles encountered along the way is often overwhelming.
Thus, no matter what theme a particular blog revolves around, most readers can relate to the all-too-familiar human experience of working toward something that is difficult to achieve, or merely fraught with numerous triumphs and failures. Whether that’s life in general, re-entering the dating world, cooking or books – every theme is characterized by a windy road, in one form or another.
To get back to my original point – what is the point of Bookworm? In the film, Julie’s blog had a very distinctive purpose. She was to work her way through every recipe in Julia Child’s cookbook, Mastering the Art of French Cooking, in the span of a year and write about it. She was a writer seeking a creative outlet and a project she could, for once, complete. Pretty straightforward.
But Bookworm – what am I trying to get at here, with this particular blog? I know that I don’t want to discuss the happenings of my day-to-day existence – no one needs to be subjected to that kind of utter confusion. All I know is that I want an outlet for my writing, and I want to write about literature – my true love.
The question is, how can I make writing about literature interesting for others to read? I thought I could do this by writing about my own experiences with certain novels – not necessarily reviews, but defining moments in my life that were characterized by engagement with a certain book. I'm still not sure if this is an effective or even remotely interesting way of writing about literature, but right now it's one of the only semi-unique ways that I can think of to write about books.
To conclude this excessively, internet-unfriendly long post, I have no idea what the true theme of this blog is or how it will evolve. I’m just going to write as I please and see how it unfolds. And since I have no expectation that anyone will even care to read these nonsensical ramblings, I am essentially free to do as I please.
Let the blogging begin.
That’s right – the three of us had a lovely date night. But that’s neither here nor there.
The point is that the movie got me thinking about my own blog. Okay, let’s be honest – I think about my reasons for starting a blog more frequently than I should. I love to read other people’s blogs – and in fact have a rather extensive list of strangers’ blogs “favourited” in my internet browser – but I always considered myself to be someone who could never maintain a blog of her own.
The idea of broadcasting my innermost thoughts and the dullest moments of my daily existence over the internet has always struck me as being distinctly narcissistic. And while I still have no interest in maintaining a “this is what I did today” blog, as time goes on and I become increasingly invested in the musings of those whose entries I follow, I have slowly become aware that each blog operates around a theme of sorts – whether intentional or not.
There is a central dilemma at the core of each writer’s entries, and it is because of this that blogs can be so goddamn addictive. It’s like reading a juicy novel in which the central conflict has yet to be resolved. The only difference is that in real life, central conflicts tend to be a bit more difficult to resolve, and the number of obstacles encountered along the way is often overwhelming.
Thus, no matter what theme a particular blog revolves around, most readers can relate to the all-too-familiar human experience of working toward something that is difficult to achieve, or merely fraught with numerous triumphs and failures. Whether that’s life in general, re-entering the dating world, cooking or books – every theme is characterized by a windy road, in one form or another.
To get back to my original point – what is the point of Bookworm? In the film, Julie’s blog had a very distinctive purpose. She was to work her way through every recipe in Julia Child’s cookbook, Mastering the Art of French Cooking, in the span of a year and write about it. She was a writer seeking a creative outlet and a project she could, for once, complete. Pretty straightforward.
But Bookworm – what am I trying to get at here, with this particular blog? I know that I don’t want to discuss the happenings of my day-to-day existence – no one needs to be subjected to that kind of utter confusion. All I know is that I want an outlet for my writing, and I want to write about literature – my true love.
The question is, how can I make writing about literature interesting for others to read? I thought I could do this by writing about my own experiences with certain novels – not necessarily reviews, but defining moments in my life that were characterized by engagement with a certain book. I'm still not sure if this is an effective or even remotely interesting way of writing about literature, but right now it's one of the only semi-unique ways that I can think of to write about books.
To conclude this excessively, internet-unfriendly long post, I have no idea what the true theme of this blog is or how it will evolve. I’m just going to write as I please and see how it unfolds. And since I have no expectation that anyone will even care to read these nonsensical ramblings, I am essentially free to do as I please.
Let the blogging begin.
Thursday, February 25, 2010
On Books and Tears
I’ll admit it: I’m a cry baby. Heartfelt commercials make me teary-eyed, and on more than one occasion I’ve found myself doubled over weeping while watching a movie. Don’t even get me started on weddings. And I don’t even like weddings.
But books… books know how to really get me. As most book lovers know, there is something particularly engaging about well-constructed characters in a novel. The long-format written narrative allows for a degree of character depth that any other art form would be hard pressed to match. I am a firm believer that this depth is what makes the process of reading so fundamentally vital to our understanding of each other outside the realm of fiction. Through the mannerisms, idiosyncrasies, triumphs, and failures of minutely constructed characters, we are given an opportunity to recognize ourselves and those around us, and to reflect on these behaviours. Through reading, we become more understanding, more empathetic, and more sensitive to the vast range of emotions and experiences that characterize human existence.
It is for these reasons that by the end of a good book, it often becomes nearly impossible to separate our emotional investment in the story from our reality. And it is because of this phenomenon – the sheer power of the written word – that I often find myself wiping away tears while reading. If the story isn’t of the sort that provokes tears (intentionally or not), it will nonetheless often stay with me for days in the form of a lingering sadness, a sense of wonderment, or simply amazement that the characters I’ve just grown to love, hate, admire, despise, do not really exist in this world. It gets me every time.
I had intended for this post to revolve around my experiences reading The Time Traveler’s Wife by Audrey Niffenegger – the beautifully written and brilliantly constructed novel that truly captured and ran away with the imaginations of millions. I’m sure I’m not alone when I say that the story and, in particular, its ending, stayed with me for a long time after I turned the last page. When I reached that last heart wrenching scene, I happened to be sitting on a packed subway in London, England. And I cried. Uncontrollably. We’re talking tears-streaming-down-my-face-oh-my-god-I-look-like-a-crazy-person cried.
That was two years ago, and I still think about that book and its impact on my reality.
That’s why, to me, literature is such a profoundly powerful art form. If, by reading words on a page, it’s possible for an individual to feel fundamentally changed – that is truly something to marvel at.
But books… books know how to really get me. As most book lovers know, there is something particularly engaging about well-constructed characters in a novel. The long-format written narrative allows for a degree of character depth that any other art form would be hard pressed to match. I am a firm believer that this depth is what makes the process of reading so fundamentally vital to our understanding of each other outside the realm of fiction. Through the mannerisms, idiosyncrasies, triumphs, and failures of minutely constructed characters, we are given an opportunity to recognize ourselves and those around us, and to reflect on these behaviours. Through reading, we become more understanding, more empathetic, and more sensitive to the vast range of emotions and experiences that characterize human existence.
It is for these reasons that by the end of a good book, it often becomes nearly impossible to separate our emotional investment in the story from our reality. And it is because of this phenomenon – the sheer power of the written word – that I often find myself wiping away tears while reading. If the story isn’t of the sort that provokes tears (intentionally or not), it will nonetheless often stay with me for days in the form of a lingering sadness, a sense of wonderment, or simply amazement that the characters I’ve just grown to love, hate, admire, despise, do not really exist in this world. It gets me every time.
I had intended for this post to revolve around my experiences reading The Time Traveler’s Wife by Audrey Niffenegger – the beautifully written and brilliantly constructed novel that truly captured and ran away with the imaginations of millions. I’m sure I’m not alone when I say that the story and, in particular, its ending, stayed with me for a long time after I turned the last page. When I reached that last heart wrenching scene, I happened to be sitting on a packed subway in London, England. And I cried. Uncontrollably. We’re talking tears-streaming-down-my-face-oh-my-god-I-look-like-a-crazy-person cried.
That was two years ago, and I still think about that book and its impact on my reality.
That’s why, to me, literature is such a profoundly powerful art form. If, by reading words on a page, it’s possible for an individual to feel fundamentally changed – that is truly something to marvel at.
Monday, February 15, 2010
Remembering Salinger
I remember reaching the last line of the story and staring at the page in shock as I read the words. I was 15, and I’d never been confronted with such a blunt, stark conclusion to a seemingly benign narrative.
It was Grade 10 English class, and Mr. Humphrey had asked us to read J.D. Salinger’s A Perfect Day for Bananafish. Although we’d all been relatively silent while reading through the 15-page short story, I felt a hush fall across the room as my peers and I each reached that last line. It was unexpected, disturbing – changed everything. I was officially fascinated with J.D. Salinger, and the conversation that followed in that class only deepened my curiosity about the author, his writing style, his message.
“What does this ending mean?” Mr. Humphrey asked us, a room full of thoughtful teenagers. “What does this tell us about Seymour, and about Salinger?”
I shyly raised my hand, convinced that I had at least a partial answer but unsure of my ability to properly articulate my analysis.
“Seymour sees an innocence in the child’s life that doesn’t exist in adulthood,” I stammered. “On the trip, he realizes that there will always be an impassable divide between the child’s world and the adult’s world. That innocence no longer exists in his life and he can’t pretend to possess it. So he decides that he would rather end his life than live in a world devoid of innocence.”
Mr. Humphrey nodded. “Congratulations,” he said. “You have just figured out J.D. Salinger.”
It was those words, that vote of confidence, that sparked my initial interest in becoming a full-time student of English literature – first as an undergrad, and later as a graduate student. That day, I realized the sheer power of words and the palpable impact they can have on minds young and old. That young students like myself could be altered, even imperceptibly but always significantly, through the art of storytelling.
On January 27, 2010, the brilliant author J.D. Salinger passed away at the age of 91. Every time I look back on my formal education as a student of English literature, which continues in the form of a lifelong devotion to the study and appreciation of good books, I will think of Salinger and his bananafish and feel thankful.
It was Grade 10 English class, and Mr. Humphrey had asked us to read J.D. Salinger’s A Perfect Day for Bananafish. Although we’d all been relatively silent while reading through the 15-page short story, I felt a hush fall across the room as my peers and I each reached that last line. It was unexpected, disturbing – changed everything. I was officially fascinated with J.D. Salinger, and the conversation that followed in that class only deepened my curiosity about the author, his writing style, his message.
“What does this ending mean?” Mr. Humphrey asked us, a room full of thoughtful teenagers. “What does this tell us about Seymour, and about Salinger?”
I shyly raised my hand, convinced that I had at least a partial answer but unsure of my ability to properly articulate my analysis.
“Seymour sees an innocence in the child’s life that doesn’t exist in adulthood,” I stammered. “On the trip, he realizes that there will always be an impassable divide between the child’s world and the adult’s world. That innocence no longer exists in his life and he can’t pretend to possess it. So he decides that he would rather end his life than live in a world devoid of innocence.”
Mr. Humphrey nodded. “Congratulations,” he said. “You have just figured out J.D. Salinger.”
It was those words, that vote of confidence, that sparked my initial interest in becoming a full-time student of English literature – first as an undergrad, and later as a graduate student. That day, I realized the sheer power of words and the palpable impact they can have on minds young and old. That young students like myself could be altered, even imperceptibly but always significantly, through the art of storytelling.
On January 27, 2010, the brilliant author J.D. Salinger passed away at the age of 91. Every time I look back on my formal education as a student of English literature, which continues in the form of a lifelong devotion to the study and appreciation of good books, I will think of Salinger and his bananafish and feel thankful.
Friday, February 12, 2010
Welcome to Bookworm
Hello!
Welcome to Bookworm. My name is Emily, and I love to read.
Grab a cup of tea, settle into a comfy chair, and join me as I examine life through literature.
To begin, let me leave you with this quote from the one and only Ernest Hemingway:
"All good books have one thing in common - they are truer than if they had really happened."
Cheers,
Emily
Welcome to Bookworm. My name is Emily, and I love to read.
Grab a cup of tea, settle into a comfy chair, and join me as I examine life through literature.
To begin, let me leave you with this quote from the one and only Ernest Hemingway:
"All good books have one thing in common - they are truer than if they had really happened."
Cheers,
Emily
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