by Laura Bloxham I have always loved reading. When I was a child I gravitated toward Nancy Drew, who solved mysteries, had a supportive father, although largely in the background, a best friend, a boyfriend, Ned, and a car. She was independent. I avoided animal stories, which almost always ended with the animal dying. I … Continue reading Shaping Identity: Literature that Lives in Me
For some reason, the books that stand out to me most carry along with them the memory not only of the plot, the characters, and the language, but the setting where I read them. Middlemarch is the name of the fictional town where the story takes place, and while I loved the setting – pre-Industrial Revolution, old English estates, country churches – it seems pertinent that I read it in a quiet place where the reaches of the sky and the ocean reflected the vastness of Eliot’s insights.
There is a joy, too, in reading as adults, in the summer, at leisure. It is a luxury we rarely allow ourselves, sometimes only on planes or on vacation. But do you remember that stealthy act of reading, under the bed-tent, late at night, in the dark? Sometimes our world goes dark, and we need reading more than ever. Sometimes reading is our deliverance.