Sunday, December 26, 2010

I don't live in other people's houses

I visit them. I wander around their rooms when they’re not home, when they’re sleeping, while they’re sitting at their dinner tables. I watch what they watch on their TV. I read the books they’re reading. I eavesdrop on their conversations.

I’ve left the comfort of an air-cooled desert home to sit in the chilling rain in Carolyn Graham’s Midsomer County; I’ve tried to send mental solutions to P.D. James for her Inspector Dalgliesh ; I’ve planned escapes from Neolithic apes on The Island of Doctor Moreau.

I’ve traveled cross country with the Joads and Bishop Jean Marie Latour, hitchhiked the galaxy alongside Arthur Dent, sailed down the Nile in a cabin next to Hercule Poirot, swung from vines with Tarzan, warded off velociraptors in Jurassic Park, chased down a monster alongside Dr. Frankenstein’s neighbors, and had my heart broken with C.S. Lewis by the death of Joy Grisham.

And I’ve loved both men and women who have touched my heart by their very gentle souls.

More than experience, reading helps me understand motivations, drives, purpose, both good and evil, and I am better able to touch and love the people of my life.

Why do you read?



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