The Reader

“A reader lives a thousand lives before he dies. The man who doesn’t read lives only one.”
-George RR. Martin

Bibliobibuli
(n): Those who read too much

The term was coined in 1957 by H.L. Mencken, who said “There are people who read too much: bibliobibuli. I know some who are constantly drunk on books, as other men are drunk on whiskey or religion. They wander through this most diverting and stimulating of worlds in a haze, seeing nothing and hearing nothing”.

Books.

They mean many things to different people. For some, they are a source of knowledge, to aid in furthering their mental growth and education. For others, they are a haven to turn to for comfort and curiosity, to escape reality.

Reading could be a pastime; while travelling to work, on a beach on holidays, something you do because there is nothing else to do. Reading could be academic; for college, school, may be seen as a chore to be accomplished. For me, reading is something I turn to whenever I feel like delving into the imaginations of another, a world so much more than my own.

“I love books. I love that moment when you open one and sink into it – you can escape from the world, into a story that’s way more interesting than yours ever will be.”
-Elizabeth Scott

How do people become readers? Now, I don’t mean those who read because they have to or those who read rarely. I mean, how does someone go about becoming, for lack of a better term, a book addict? It’s an interesting question really. Some people are reared on books, encouraged by their parents from a young age. Curiosity may have been the factor for others, walking past a shop and spotting an intriguing cover that leads to them picking up their first book. I asked my friend why she started reading, and she answered that she just picked up a book, adding jokingly that she “was a little nerd.”

My grandparents were the ones who nudged me into reading when I was twelve. I’d been injured at summer camp and couldn’t do any more sports because of a broken collarbone. They’d bought me the last Harry Potter book and reluctantly at first, I read it.

“I don’t believe in the kind of magic in my books. But I do believe something very magical can happen when you read a good book.”
-J.K Rowling

It says something about the capabilities of an author who is able to enthral a reader from the first sentence. J.K Rowling has this ability. Her works have captured the minds of millions worldwide and I was no different. From the first line of Harry Potter and the Deathly Hollows, I was captivated, “The two men appeared out of nowhere, a few yards apart in the narrow, moonlit lane.”  I needed to know more. Who were the men? What was happening? Were they friends or enemies? Full of questions and the urge to read on,  I did. I read the book.

It became the first of many books that stole my attention for multiple hours a day, that kept me up all night despite my promise that “I’ll sleep after I finish this chapter.” One chapter led to two, then to three, and before I realised it, there would be no more chapters and I was left craving the next book.

Books are powerful things. They contain the thoughts and feelings of their creators. Authors write with emotion, with care. They spend hours fixating on that one paragraph, scrutinising over a single word in order to create that one sentence that coils around your mind and sticks with you long after you’ve forgotten the plot.

“If you only read the books that everyone else is reading, you can only think what everyone else is thinking.”
-Haruki Murakami

As a reader, you have so much to choose from. There is an endless supply of novels at your disposal. Countless different genres for your fancy. Though no person is supposed to love the same as another, no one is meant to only care about the books their friends care about. Read what you desire, be that sci-fi, romance, fiction or even fanfiction. That is how your love for reading will grow.

You will never learn to enjoy a book if someone else makes you read it. This is, what I believe, one of the reasons I did not enjoy reading when I was younger. I was told what to read when my class made weekly trips to the local library. We were restricted to a certain section of novels and they were not to my taste. Due to that, I found that I did not read what I brought home. They would sit in my room, still in the bag, untouched. That is not what a book is for. It is meant to be read, to be lingered over, to have its pages dog-eared, the spine rippled from being read over and over.

A worn old book always looks more appealing to me. It’s the symbol that someone else has cherished the novel, they’ve spent hours reading it, delving into its world and loved it enough to go back to it again and again.  It’s a sign that the author’s work has been treasured, that their words have had an impact on the reader. And in the end, isn’t that what all writers want?

“All the secrets of the world are contained in books. Read at your own risk.”
– Lemony Snicket

Her FairyTale Ending

“It is only with the heart that one can see rightly. What is essential is invisible to the eye.”
-Antoine De Saint-Exupery

There are times when I find I cannot create an idea to write. I cannot imagine anything worth writing. It is something many people face but I have found that just listening to some music and writing what it inspires me to be worth doing. 

So that’s what I did. I found this instrumental video on youtube and let it play in the background as I wrote what flowed into my head.

 

Her FairyTale Ending

Grace stood alone.

Her reflection stared back at her as she looked into the depths of the mirror. She didn’t recognise the girl that was looking at her. Pale and mud-splattered cheeks were now a rosy pink; lips soft and stained red, eyes shadowed by a light gold. The girl before her was not herself but something they’d created. Grace missed the messy hair that had once been carelessly tossed into a bun, that was now twisted into an intricate knot decorated with a pearl crown.

Eyes lowering to her throat, she reached up and ever so carefully teased the silver that lined her neck. Her shoulders were bare, the silken material of the dress beginning at her arms and chest, cascading down to kiss the floor. There was no denying the beauty of the gown; it shimmered with flecks of silver through the bright white, diamonds lining the corset. No expense was spared on this. It was breath-taking, but it wasn’t her.

The woman that watched her from the confines of the mirror shimmered and was replaced with another. Her dark brown hair fell in ringlets around her oval face. Her cheeks were splashed with dirt, yet her eyes glimmered excitedly and her dry lips were stretched into an eager smile. She was different to the girl that stood there now. She was happy, content. It showed in her smile.

‘When had she last smiled like that?’ she wondered, as the apparition of her past-self bubbled away. With a sigh, she turned from the mirror, the dress swirling around her legs as she tried not to trip in the heels she’d been pushed into.

It wasn’t that she was unhappy in her new life. It was just that she knew deep down that it wasn’t her life. Being chosen to wed a prince was the dream of all the other girls. Yet why did she yearn to marry a man who did not love her, but the crown? Walking slowly, she passed by murals of past Kings and their chosen Queens. Her eyes flickered over each beautiful face and deep down she worried how she would compare to them. Did she even want to be like them?

She’d always dreamed of leaving her tiny village and simple life. Fantasies of finding her own Prince Charming were not uncommon for her when she was young, just like every other girl. Yet now that Grace was about to get the life she’d always thought she wanted, she hesitated. It wasn’t like she had imagined; not as fancy nor as beautiful. The portrayal given to her in Fairytales made it out to be wonderful and everlasting, but it was hard and joyless at times.

Pausing by a window, the silent girl gazed out at the landscape around her. Since she’d arrived she’d been kept within the walls of the castle. “For her protection,” the Knights had repeated each time she pleaded to be let out. How she desired to walk through the gardens, dance around the trees and just enjoy the air and land around her once more. Was this going to be her life from now on? Hidden behind a castle door for all of time, she thought, with a frown marring her features; never to experience the simple things once more.

Grace had thought this was what she wanted; but the more she dwelled on it, the more she began to question her dreams. Was the small village really so bad? Was living with her family, bickering with her sister and helping her mother in the shop so draining as she thought?

Unconsciously, as her thoughts lingered on her family, a tear trailed down her cheek. She’d ran from them the first chance she’d got, eagerly taken the hand of a stranger who claimed to love her at first glance. It was her fairytale, she couldn’t say no, she hadn’t wanted to. So she went. No goodbyes. No tears. But she missed them terribly; many times she wept to herself, thinking of all she had done wrong and what she would change if she got the chance.

Squeezing her fists tight, she brushed away another stray tear as voices shouted up to her. Leaning out of the window, she gazed down at the young girls, daughters of some Lords who’d arrived for the wedding. They smiled up at her and eagerly waved. Grace gnawed on her lip watching them. She did not smile or wave, instead, she envisioned her sister in their place who began sobbing at the loss of her elder sister. Her chest ached, her throat clogged up and Grace spun from the window. She couldn’t do this. Not like this. She couldn’t marry a man who did not know her or care to know her all for a life she had believed was better for her.

Her footsteps increased as she started down the hallway, and soon she was running. The shiny bracelets she wore caught on the dress, tugging on the seams and she stumbled. She ripped the bracelet from the material, not caring that it tore. The charms scattered to the floor as she yanked them from her skin, the necklace followed, as did the little crown. Her heels crashed against the wall as she kicked them away and burst out the doors.

Voices called out to her as she barged down the large steps. It did not bother her that she bumped into many guests, she did not care that they saw her stained cheeks or torn dress. Her hair flared out behind her as she raced towards the main gates. She couldn’t do this. He didn’t love her, and she knew now that although this life was a Fairytale and she would never want for anything, it wasn’t for her.

She wanted to work with her father, she wanted to spend time in the forest with her sister, sing with her mother; she wanted to live happily. Perhaps not with riches, but she knew now that money wasn’t the only wealth – happiness was what she longed for more. She’d turned her back on it once, but she understood now.

She ran all the way back to her small village. Her once beautiful dress now a mess of leaves and dirt, her feet aching and bloody, her hair windswept and her make-up a disaster, but she was smiling. Her cheeks stung as she smiled, much to the confusion of the villagers who spotted her. 

All that mattered to her was the small house before her as she threw open the little gate. All she wanted was the people that waited inside. Before she could reach the door it was pushed open and a younger version of her with the same messy hair and shining eyes barged out in a tattered dress.

The sisters collided on the path, their arms coiling around each other. Grace clung to her little Melody, as the young girl sobbed against her. She cried more freely now, her tears wetting Melody’s hair. Some villagers wandered closer, drawn by the commotion as Grace’s parents stepped out and engulfed their daughters in an embrace.

As she stood there, surrounded by those she had left, Grace felt it. That warmth that had been absent while she was in the castle, the familiar and welcome tingling in her chest. She was home, and more than that, she was where she belonged. She didn’t need a prince to make her life complete. She needed the people before her. Her family.

Sometimes your very own Fairytale is with the ones that have been with you all along.

 

Image found HERE