In NH, where winter crouches behind an opening door
I am not one of those people who longs to return to the days of childhood. If my memory serves correctly I was quite relieved when it was over and I could move on to other things. I was happy for it to end save just one way. As a child I found most books to be utterly engrossing. They had a power to completely suspend reality for me, exactly like a form of hypnosis.
It doesn’t happen as often now and I am not entirely sure why that would be. Is it that I have fewer hours at a time in which to immerse myself in a story world? Is it that my mind is more filled with obligations and I can’t let go with as much abandon? Is it that so much of my own fairy tale has already come to pass?
Whatever the reason for this change, it makes the pleasure all the sharper when I do find myself dizzy and groggy and punch-drunk on the happiness of a well-told tale. In the last few months I have encountered several books that have swept me completely off my feet and out of my own head. For this, I am profoundly grateful.
Losing myself so thoroughly has seemed more like finding myself again, rediscovering the me that used to be. These books have been a tonic, a fountain of youth, a time travel machine. I hope you are all so lucky in your chosen reads. And I’d love to hear if your experience of reading has changed over the years.