I’ve always preferred fiction. I think most people do. I’ve always loved to immerse myself into someone else’s world; I can deal with their problems as long as they’re not real. When everything around me is too much, I don’t want to hear about someone somewhere who has it worse off – I want to worry about Jane Eyre as an orphan. It’s exceedingly selfish, and I’m aware of that, but sometimes I just …can’t… care.
I despise science fiction, but I adore fantasy. I don’t think I’ve ever quite convinced myself that faeries aren’t real – ever since I was little they have completely entranced me. Granted, I grew up on an acre and a half in a small town with a forest behind my house and a mountain range surrounding us. I spent summer days perusing novels in the meadow, and winter afternoons curled up on the couch with classics. It was the perfect breeding ground for fey.
I’ve read a lot of classics, too. My mom made me balance out the fantasy with something a bit more substantial, and I loved to wade my way through the heavy novels, learning new words and marveling at times long past. They were as close to nonfiction as I usually got (besides a few autobiographies). They were realistic, at least. And the feeling of finishing them was so painfully satisfying – as a ten year old, holding the weighty hardcovers and knowing that you’d read every word in them was an accomplishment. But each one was the end of a journey, too.
I read so many over the years. Jane Eyre, Great Expectations, Wuthering Heights, Pride and Prejudice… We ordered this set, and I read nearly all of them. I refused to read such books as 20,000 Leagues Under the Sea, War of the Worlds, and Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde (I actually read that this year…yikes), though.
It sort of saddens me now to think of all the books I’ve read. There are so many. So so many. They brought me such joy, but I’m sure I only remember a fraction of them. It hurts.
And the knowledge that I’ll never be able to read all the books in the world plagues me endlessly. I suppose it’s comforting to know that there will always be another one to read, but the fact that I’ll never capture all the wonder that lies between the pages of millions of books all over the world is really difficult to deal with sometimes.
Anyway, that’s a bit of a ramble, I’m sorry. I was feeling it though. Also, I’m in class right now and should probably find something more productive to do with my time.
~A Girl Who Likes to Think She’s Different