A book can be a person’s most loyal friend. You can open it up whenever you feel (like the urge to defecate), wherever you are (at the toilet), whatever the situation (constipation, diarrhoea, smooth-sailing dumps, whatever).
I shall stop being anal now.
It’s difficult to articulate the feelings I have for books. There’s not a day that I can go by without having a book to read, or at the very least the papers.
I am waiting for bus / train / ride home. Reading Ponyboy’s English assignment about living with brothers Sodapop and Darry, and life as a Greaser.
I am waiting for class to start. Getting acquainted with a giant who reads Dahl’s Chickens.
I am whiling away time before tv show starts. Cringing inwardly at Becky Bloomwood’s asinine attempts to cure shopaholism.
I am revising for tomorrow’s exam. Making no attempt to predict the whodunit: that’s Hercule Poirot’s job.
I pop to library every other week (now that have two blogs to maintain! Previously I used to go every week.) to stock up on new books. I always get a thrill of excitement when I discover a book that have I always wanted to read nestled in bookshelves, like playing a bookworm’s treasure hunt.
I guess I am that sort of person that feels lonely anywhere, and a book helps to feel less lonely. As if Ponyboy’s waiting patiently for me to read finish his English assignment. As if a giant can’t wait to tell me how he’s borrowed a Dahl’s Chickens book for eighty years to learn how to read and write. As if Becky pauses in mid-action of a terrifically mortifying situation for me to come back so she can continue her shopping misadventures. As if Hercule Poirot is delaying the most unpretentious of self-blowing trumpet session of the power of his little grey cells just for me to appear in his audience.
A book helps to feel less in loneliness, but more in solitude. As Paul Tillich said:
Language has created the word loneliness to express the pain of being alone, and the word solitude to express the glory of being alone.