Fri 11 Aug 2006
In last Sunday’s New York Times Book Review, Joe Queenan wrote,
Like many children growing up in crummy neighborhoods, I honestly believed that if I read enough books, I would one day possess a gorgeous house with two cars, two children and a white picket fence. This is exactly what has come to pass.
This made me laugh out loud, because it’s exactly how I feel about reading and my life. The neighborhood in which I grew up wasn’t (that) crummy, and my current house is not (at all) gorgeous, but for me reading was tied up with aspiration. I aspired, therefore I read; I read, therefore I aspired. In some cases, you can trace the links directly. I read The Right Stuff and signed up for flying lessons; I read Pride and Prejudice and pressed my e-mail address on the nice man at the bar who swore he would never, ever get married. And here I am on the wrong side of forty, with most of my aspirations fulfilled: an education, the opportunity to travel, a good marriage, children, central air conditioning. Oh, I’m still saving a few things for retirement, but basically I feel like reading got me where I am today.
I wonder what aspirations will shape Aitch’s and Minor’s reading lists? Will it be typical boy stuff — adventure, magic, sports? Will one of them turn out against all odds to be an admirer of Austen or Brontë? (Not so far-fetched: my brother-in-law likes Austen, and an old boyfriend turned me on to Wuthering Heights.) Will they indulge in prep-school lit? Will they turn toward Asian writers, or become obsessed with tales of orphans?
I would love to hear from some other people on this. How did what you read shape what you wanted? And how has it turned out for you?
August 11th, 2006 at 4:53 pm
When I was growing up, my mother taught me how to read from an early age. We watched TV, but we always had bi-weekly library visits and great stories to pick up before bed.
Later, as I grew up, my parents gave me a library card. It was a gift for one of my birthdays. I used it more than I could have ever dreamed. Not only were books cool, but I felt like I was getting away with something when I read early Stephen King novels.
Reading sparked my interest in history, architecture, math, travel, music, cooking, and even curing myself of being a “dummy”, of many different subjects.
I fell in love with Mark Twain, Charles Dickens, Victor Hugo, and so many more. The classics were wonderful, because my parents had never even read them. It made me feel smart. I found myself mocking my mother by telling her, “she could feed the bunnies” after reading Steinbeck.
I am a book worm, and really have no boundaries when it comes to types of books. I love all literature, and not just the snobbish titles one would expect in a mansion home library.
To answer your question, reading never took me anywhere alone. It never made me rich, a lawyer, or a doctor. It just opened up my mind to the possibilities that there was more to the world/enviroment then what I was raised in. There was more information in the world than what my parents knew. Reading is a gift and a tool that enables people to become more. If they choose to use the knowledge, there are no boundaries. Books are maps that can lead us to where we desire to go in life. Kids who learn how to read the maps do have great advantages.