I find that words have power — that the transient beauty of 26 rearranged letters serenades our conscience. Reverberating at our lobes, they orchestrate the tune of human thought. It becomes, therefore, almost mechanical to beam at the leather-bound, paperback, hard-cover ode to language.
I have indulged in Gatsby’s renditions of Romanovic extravagance, revelled in the tragically comical dissatisfaction of Madame Bovary, revolted along with the Beat generation, ridden Hemingway’s barman boat and gaped at the Kafkaesque. In the pixelated subtitles of Rory Gilmore, “I live in two worlds.” Literature, to me, gives flesh to stand-alone words. Books tug at the confines of your life and like ambrosia, tempt you towards the imagined almost as if it were the real.
Why is it then that the world draws expressions of concern, ardently believing that the teenage mind will erase a force this essential to their existence? It sounds almost like the struggle of Jane Eyre: dignified books enduring the brutal teenage gaze. But unlike Brocklehurst (one of Eyre’s many antagonists), the villain in this narrative is grossly misunderstood.
As the typical teenager’s life sails at full speed, it is impossible for the tranquil solace of books to flee through the palms of our hands. In the nature of a balancing circus act, today’s teenage world is often an intricate navigation through slander, transcripts, essays and exams. With a world that runs like trainers at a track meet, books have become a pacific vortex, and a pause of utter silence where the stories loom over distress. By chiselling a world so separate from ours, it leaves us permanently invested in foreign storylines. Its purpose has, almost exclusively, transformed from desire to necessity.
Books are not cancelled by networks that foresee low ratings, or clouded by the “artistic differences” of Hollywood’s elite. The ability to experience what you would like at any time that you would like to do so, is perhaps why I am enamoured by books. With books you may live in a million cities, be thousands of characters and join worlds that are either the same or completely different from yours. With the flip of a page, you can instantly relive the blissful and skip the vile. When you look at the reality of life, this is not the case. In spite of how idyllic or desolate a realm you currently see yourself in, there is no way to recede back to the very beginning.
At the same time, it inspires our constantly evolving generation. The hero’s “happily ever after” cliché, while redundant, is also comforting. It empowers the victory of a lead against the folly of the villain — reinforcing that despite war, there is always light at the end of an endurance-demanding tunnel. Nevertheless, endings as wretched as the death of one twin (yes, Joanne Kathleen Rowling, I glare right at you) or the unspeakable tragedy of Farewell to the Arms, show us how the world can be unforgiving. And that, although these rip through expected subplots, they all have a purpose in our eventual storylines.
From my first time reading Dr Suess to the bookmarked Anna Karenina that lies on my bedside table, every crochet of words in the books I read has held meaning to the life I am in. It is this resonance for which I will always be grateful.
