So I happened upon a predicament of outrageous proportions yesterday. I was standing in Hasting, my sole purpose there to purchase Jane Austen’s Northanger Abbey which I had recently discovered to be a light, amusing story, when I realized that I held three books in my hand and another calling out to me from the shelf. I have always wanted to buy a collection of H.P. Lovecraft’s musically written horror stories. But then I also longed for a richly worded collection of Washington Irving’s short delightful stories. (What a classical sounding name! Washington Irving. Why do we not name our children such interesting names nowadays?) Dracula, the original vampire story, wanted me to read it as well. But then also, the Phantom of the Opera was singing out to me to read HIS book. (For ever since I watched the movie, which I must admit was a little fruity in the singing dialogue department, the whole story seemed awfully sad and beautiful, a must read. I also have to say that if it wasn’t for the violent and periodically murderous tendencies of Erik I would take a darkly handsome, half deformed, rich voiced Gerald Butler any day over a fluffy little English man with stringy hair) Anyway, I stray from my topic…
Finally with forced resolution I put all books away (I had probably over $30 in my hand and $10 in my wallet) and I chose the book which I had originally come to buy: Jane Austen’s Northanger Abbey. Which I must admit being 1/8th of the way finished, it is very refreshing.
I do love the feeling one gets after reading. Unless of course you are reading Frankenstein or Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde (both of which left me terribly hollow feeling and rather forlorn).
I do feel somewhat like an impatient reader that in itself seems like a paradox. If anything a reader must have patience! I admit for all my praise about reading, I have a hard time committing to a book, just like school projects, parties, plans, blog layouts, and boyfriends. I blame the ADD. I have started so many books, just to put them down: Great Expectations, Emma, A Time Machine, To Kill a Mockingbird, The Rime of the Ancient Mariner, Treasure Island, A Scarlet Letter, (No wait, I finished that one) the sonnets of Elizabeth Barrett Browning, works from Coleridge, Byron, Chaucer, and Stephanie Meyer (one series of books I am glad I could never get into!) And of course a volume of titles of which have escaped my memory. What a wicked person I am! To be so heartless and leave these great treasures cold and alone. If I was one of these authors, dead or alive, I would be quite affronted that my work had not been interesting or practical enough to pierce my inattentiveness and impatience. I am resolve however to not let myself have such excuses which before soothed my conscience as I abandoned yet another poor little book for more practical, responsible ventures. I have no school work to complain of, I have no children to commandeer my time, my jobs stays where it is put after I swipe my time card and does not follow me home. What responsibility might distract me other than work, cleaning the house, or friends? I promise myself to take advantage of this interim and read as much as I can! Because life just seems so much more complex and rich after you have shared a few moments within the pages of a book.
