I’ve been following how different people approach books. I’ve heard people say they’re avid readers and gorge on books that are absorbing, that they might finish through in one night. Those who observe how much I love books can’t help exclaiming surprised at one point or another how long I carry each book that I read (am always lugging it around wherever I go, but still take quite a while to complete). On a side note, am still trying to shake off the condescending view I have of light reads and bookworms, who read lighter books and call themselves bookworms. Is judging a book by its cover and judging one by the book one holds, normal?
Reading is never just reading, but more of a conversation with the self that the book should stimulate and only such text that succeeds in opening those doors within and drift the reader through an Experience, I seem to love. Lately this urge has transformed into pencil notes scribbled on the margins – more of a one-sided conversation with the author! Kafka on the Shore, the latest read – am unable to stop talking about it; better write about it! – really took this to a new level.
The experience from each read should enrich the life of the reader in some way and that responsibility, I feel, lies with the reader himself in choosing the right book off the shelf and aligning the perspective that he wishes to apply to it. The perspectives will subconsciously transform along the journey with every bite of literature that the neurons feed unto. Equipped with this power, these people will now hopefully wield the responsibility of recommendation and stow the right book on their peers, hopefully leading to an enlightened breed of people. The Dream!
Anilicious 