I Need A Book: A History of Reading
I need a book. I need an armful of books. I pick out all the best ones and I bring them to Mommy. She always reads me books, and the more I bring her, the longer she will read to me. I love it when Mommy reads to me. I like books about love the most! My Mommy loves me sooo much! I can tell because she always smiles when she sees me and gives me big big hugs, just like in the book "Guess How Much I love You" by Sam McBratney. Mommy reads to me is soft voices and when she gets tired, she sets the last book down. I don’t want her to leave, I want Mommy to read to me in her gentle voice forever. “Don’t leave,” I beg. I hate being alone in the dark. But Mommy kisses me on the forehead and tells me not to be afraid, then she wraps me in one of her big big hugs and tucks me into bed real tight and I dream of bunnies with long, outstretched arms.
I don’t need books. I need paper. I need lots and lots of paper. I make my own books now. My world is filled with crayons and markers and bare feet running to get the stapler so I can patch my papers together and make them look just like the real thing! Mommy gives me an endless supply of paper. I wonder where all this paper comes from but mostly I’m just glad we have a lot. I like the legal kind that’s extra long so I can fold them over and make my books look extra professional. I don’t read my books; my books don’t have words. I can write real good but I just want to draw pictures and use whatever color I want. Maybe someday I will make books for real!
I need books. I need chapter books. Miss Colburn says I am a fast reader and boy will I prove it! Sometimes the people who work at the school take me out into the hallway and they time me while I read. They don’t know that I am skimming over words as fast as I can and not really reading what it says. Boy do I have them fooled. Maybe they will give me an award for being the fastest reader! Miss Colburn sets high expectations for my summer reading list and I am determined to fill in all the blank lines on the sheet. I go home and tell Mom I will be very busy reading this summer and to please not disturb me. I go to our dining room wall and look over knotted maple shelves of books that span all the way from my black uniform flats to the top of our vaulted ceiling. I pick the ones I can reach, aiming for series so I can get the most in as possible. I pretend to read all the “Little House on the Prairie”books by Laura Ingles Wilder. I like the art on the covers, and they are just the right size. I add them to my list before I even open them, among a dozen others I have already marked down. Surely the intention to read is equally as valuable as reading them for real. Mom looks at my list in a puzzled way, I think she is on to me. “Did you really read all these?” she asks. “Of course!” I say, nervous of her investigation. But Mom knows I am competitive and that I want a long list. She has read “Little House on the Prairie” many times and so she decides to quiz me on them. She writes out questions like a real teacher and everything then she sits me down at the table to answer them. I accept her challenge and I guess on every question she asks me. And wouldn’t you know, I answer a lot of them right! She gives me a stern look and signs my sheet reluctantly. When the times comes, I turn that list in proud as a peacock. Boy do I have these people fooled!
I need books for my Birthday. I like the “Katie Kazoo, Switcheroo” series by Nancy E. Krulik the most right now. There are so many stories in that series and I can’t get enough of them! The main character Katie is always turning into someone new and I want to read who she becomes next. My Dad asks me on the phone what I want for my birthday, and I am nervous to ask him for things. Mom gives me an encouraging nudge and I slowly tell him exactly what books to get, but I know he won’t remember. When my birthday comes, Mom brings a big, unwrapped cardboard box to me and says it is from Dad. I open the box and navigate through a sea of tissue. Nestled inside is an entirely brand-new set of “Katie Kazoo, Switcheroo” with all the stories I haven’t read yet! I touch their glossy covers and gently pull my thumb past the bright white pages. They smell new, like fresh ink and pressed cotton. Suddenly that smell makes me feel sad, because I know he spent a lot of money on these books and that is something he would not usually do. I hold them in my hands like precious treasures. This is the only birthday present my Dad will give me for a very long time. I read my new books right away and I get lost in the beautiful messy shapeshifting chaos that is Katie Kazoo’s life. Sometimes I wish I could turn into other people like Katie does, then maybe I could be someone with married parents and I could have a Dad for a day.
I need a book from the high school library. That’s where I eat lunch because I hate everybody. Being around books makes me feel safe and the library is quiet except for the occasional tapping of keyboards. It is the perfect place to disappear. The library has the most sunlight in the entire school because half of the room is made of thick glass windows. I have never looked for a book in the library, I just stare out the massive sun-filled windows and I wonder what it would feel like to jump out of one of them. Sometimes I sit with the librarian while she collects returns and I quietly scan the ones she hasn’t gotten to yet. I don’t know how to find books in a library because it is organized by a system I do not understand and I don’t like to ask for help, so I just look through this pre-read ensemble. I see a small yellow binding peeking out from the hoard and reach for it. The cover has a peculiar image of a boy with a box on his head, it is called “Running with Scissors”. I decide I want to read this book, and it becomes my favorite. I have never read anything like it; it is vulgar and strange and hilarious! When I am finished, I look at the author, his name is Augusten Burroughs. I use the school’s library computer to search his complicated name and I find out he has written a lot of books. I read all of them. Augusten is a messed-up person and I love that about him. His life is definitely worse than mine and soon I am more invested in his stories than staring out windows and breaking the glass with my imagination. When I have read all of his books, I find out his writing style is a type of genre called memoir,and I find other authors who write like he does. I love having access to people’s inner dialogue and I like experiencing their chaotic lives from the quiet bedroom of my suburban home. But most of all, I adore how the author’s rise from their own ashes to become victorious storytellers. They give me the courage to rise from my own downward spiral and become a victorious storyteller too. I get my hands on every memoir I see for the next six years.
I need a book. The book I need is called “East of Eden” by John Steinbeck. The handsome man I met at the bar told me it is his favorite and I decide that if he likes it, then I want to like it too. I leave my shift at the coffee house the next day, paycheck in hand and I walk to the bank where I deposit an even number, taking the odds and ends in cash. When I leave the bank, I get in my trusty Kia which breaks down everywhere I go, and I hike it a couple miles up the road to Half-Priced Books. I always go to the bookstore on payday. It is my favorite place to go. The shelves there are tightly overflowing with colorful covers of all ages and it is organized by a system that I understand. Used books have an even more enchanting smell than the fluorescent kind at Barnes & Noble; used books have brittle, coffee-and-cream-colored pages with notes in the margins and handwritten dates in the covers and they smell of old linens and aged wood. I could smell that smell forever. So I do. I stay for hours and I walk through all of my favorite sections: memoirs, ornithology, Christianity, herbal medicine, and of course, the clearance section. But John Steinbeck’s “East of Eden” is considered a “Classic” and I have not been to that section before. It is filled with boring books they used to make us read in school like “Grapes of Wrath” and “The great Gatsby”, I hated those types of books. I reach this foreign section of the bookstore and notice that these books are even older and more used than the others and I fall victim to their timeless charm. I bring my paperback classic home and I devour every word until I decide that classics are wonderful and precious, and I fill my bedroom shelves with them.
Now, I need a book to teach me something. I reach for my tattered leather Bible, thin and fragile and beloved. I absorb “The Prophet” by Kahlil Gibran and “The Alchemist” by Paolo Coelho. I reach for “Mere Christianity” by C.S. Lewis and “The Three Treasures” by Daniel Reed. I breathe them in and they bring me peace and they make me curious. I search my heart and my mind, and I find that I am good. Humanity is good. I feel lighter, and I want to love more. I take what I learn, and I go out and I practice love. I practice the forgiveness. I practice peace and harmony. I feel whole.
I need a book. I need a book because I need to study, I need to be inspired, I need to be challenged, I need new ideas, I need to learn something. I need the words of a thousand strangers, tucked tightly within the battered covers of a book read by someone’s Mother, someone’s Brother, and I want them to tell me all the things they are thinking and what they went through, so that I can understand my world a little better. I want my shelves of books to be my fortress, protecting me from ignorance and boredom. I want to wear my books like a heavy cloak carrying secrets of knowledge and wisdom with me wherever I go. I want to use my language, their language, our language, to keep telling stories so that I never run out of things to read. I need books like I need my faith; each one creating a new stepping-stone for me to stand on until I am ready to take my next step forward. I need books because books are my secret garden, my quiet place, my sanctuary. Books are my collection of who I was and who I’m becoming, and I love them like old friends.
I don’t need books. I need paper. I need lots and lots of paper. I make my own books now. My world is filled with crayons and markers and bare feet running to get the stapler so I can patch my papers together and make them look just like the real thing! Mommy gives me an endless supply of paper. I wonder where all this paper comes from but mostly I’m just glad we have a lot. I like the legal kind that’s extra long so I can fold them over and make my books look extra professional. I don’t read my books; my books don’t have words. I can write real good but I just want to draw pictures and use whatever color I want. Maybe someday I will make books for real!
I need books. I need chapter books. Miss Colburn says I am a fast reader and boy will I prove it! Sometimes the people who work at the school take me out into the hallway and they time me while I read. They don’t know that I am skimming over words as fast as I can and not really reading what it says. Boy do I have them fooled. Maybe they will give me an award for being the fastest reader! Miss Colburn sets high expectations for my summer reading list and I am determined to fill in all the blank lines on the sheet. I go home and tell Mom I will be very busy reading this summer and to please not disturb me. I go to our dining room wall and look over knotted maple shelves of books that span all the way from my black uniform flats to the top of our vaulted ceiling. I pick the ones I can reach, aiming for series so I can get the most in as possible. I pretend to read all the “Little House on the Prairie”books by Laura Ingles Wilder. I like the art on the covers, and they are just the right size. I add them to my list before I even open them, among a dozen others I have already marked down. Surely the intention to read is equally as valuable as reading them for real. Mom looks at my list in a puzzled way, I think she is on to me. “Did you really read all these?” she asks. “Of course!” I say, nervous of her investigation. But Mom knows I am competitive and that I want a long list. She has read “Little House on the Prairie” many times and so she decides to quiz me on them. She writes out questions like a real teacher and everything then she sits me down at the table to answer them. I accept her challenge and I guess on every question she asks me. And wouldn’t you know, I answer a lot of them right! She gives me a stern look and signs my sheet reluctantly. When the times comes, I turn that list in proud as a peacock. Boy do I have these people fooled!
I need books for my Birthday. I like the “Katie Kazoo, Switcheroo” series by Nancy E. Krulik the most right now. There are so many stories in that series and I can’t get enough of them! The main character Katie is always turning into someone new and I want to read who she becomes next. My Dad asks me on the phone what I want for my birthday, and I am nervous to ask him for things. Mom gives me an encouraging nudge and I slowly tell him exactly what books to get, but I know he won’t remember. When my birthday comes, Mom brings a big, unwrapped cardboard box to me and says it is from Dad. I open the box and navigate through a sea of tissue. Nestled inside is an entirely brand-new set of “Katie Kazoo, Switcheroo” with all the stories I haven’t read yet! I touch their glossy covers and gently pull my thumb past the bright white pages. They smell new, like fresh ink and pressed cotton. Suddenly that smell makes me feel sad, because I know he spent a lot of money on these books and that is something he would not usually do. I hold them in my hands like precious treasures. This is the only birthday present my Dad will give me for a very long time. I read my new books right away and I get lost in the beautiful messy shapeshifting chaos that is Katie Kazoo’s life. Sometimes I wish I could turn into other people like Katie does, then maybe I could be someone with married parents and I could have a Dad for a day.
I need a book from the high school library. That’s where I eat lunch because I hate everybody. Being around books makes me feel safe and the library is quiet except for the occasional tapping of keyboards. It is the perfect place to disappear. The library has the most sunlight in the entire school because half of the room is made of thick glass windows. I have never looked for a book in the library, I just stare out the massive sun-filled windows and I wonder what it would feel like to jump out of one of them. Sometimes I sit with the librarian while she collects returns and I quietly scan the ones she hasn’t gotten to yet. I don’t know how to find books in a library because it is organized by a system I do not understand and I don’t like to ask for help, so I just look through this pre-read ensemble. I see a small yellow binding peeking out from the hoard and reach for it. The cover has a peculiar image of a boy with a box on his head, it is called “Running with Scissors”. I decide I want to read this book, and it becomes my favorite. I have never read anything like it; it is vulgar and strange and hilarious! When I am finished, I look at the author, his name is Augusten Burroughs. I use the school’s library computer to search his complicated name and I find out he has written a lot of books. I read all of them. Augusten is a messed-up person and I love that about him. His life is definitely worse than mine and soon I am more invested in his stories than staring out windows and breaking the glass with my imagination. When I have read all of his books, I find out his writing style is a type of genre called memoir,and I find other authors who write like he does. I love having access to people’s inner dialogue and I like experiencing their chaotic lives from the quiet bedroom of my suburban home. But most of all, I adore how the author’s rise from their own ashes to become victorious storytellers. They give me the courage to rise from my own downward spiral and become a victorious storyteller too. I get my hands on every memoir I see for the next six years.
I need a book. The book I need is called “East of Eden” by John Steinbeck. The handsome man I met at the bar told me it is his favorite and I decide that if he likes it, then I want to like it too. I leave my shift at the coffee house the next day, paycheck in hand and I walk to the bank where I deposit an even number, taking the odds and ends in cash. When I leave the bank, I get in my trusty Kia which breaks down everywhere I go, and I hike it a couple miles up the road to Half-Priced Books. I always go to the bookstore on payday. It is my favorite place to go. The shelves there are tightly overflowing with colorful covers of all ages and it is organized by a system that I understand. Used books have an even more enchanting smell than the fluorescent kind at Barnes & Noble; used books have brittle, coffee-and-cream-colored pages with notes in the margins and handwritten dates in the covers and they smell of old linens and aged wood. I could smell that smell forever. So I do. I stay for hours and I walk through all of my favorite sections: memoirs, ornithology, Christianity, herbal medicine, and of course, the clearance section. But John Steinbeck’s “East of Eden” is considered a “Classic” and I have not been to that section before. It is filled with boring books they used to make us read in school like “Grapes of Wrath” and “The great Gatsby”, I hated those types of books. I reach this foreign section of the bookstore and notice that these books are even older and more used than the others and I fall victim to their timeless charm. I bring my paperback classic home and I devour every word until I decide that classics are wonderful and precious, and I fill my bedroom shelves with them.
Now, I need a book to teach me something. I reach for my tattered leather Bible, thin and fragile and beloved. I absorb “The Prophet” by Kahlil Gibran and “The Alchemist” by Paolo Coelho. I reach for “Mere Christianity” by C.S. Lewis and “The Three Treasures” by Daniel Reed. I breathe them in and they bring me peace and they make me curious. I search my heart and my mind, and I find that I am good. Humanity is good. I feel lighter, and I want to love more. I take what I learn, and I go out and I practice love. I practice the forgiveness. I practice peace and harmony. I feel whole.
I need a book. I need a book because I need to study, I need to be inspired, I need to be challenged, I need new ideas, I need to learn something. I need the words of a thousand strangers, tucked tightly within the battered covers of a book read by someone’s Mother, someone’s Brother, and I want them to tell me all the things they are thinking and what they went through, so that I can understand my world a little better. I want my shelves of books to be my fortress, protecting me from ignorance and boredom. I want to wear my books like a heavy cloak carrying secrets of knowledge and wisdom with me wherever I go. I want to use my language, their language, our language, to keep telling stories so that I never run out of things to read. I need books like I need my faith; each one creating a new stepping-stone for me to stand on until I am ready to take my next step forward. I need books because books are my secret garden, my quiet place, my sanctuary. Books are my collection of who I was and who I’m becoming, and I love them like old friends.
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