"Until there was a threat to it, I never loved reading. One does not love breathing."
--Scout Finch, To Kill a Mockingbird, Harper Lee
I am a book junkie. Just as I have to breathe, I have to read. My security blanket is not warm and fuzzy; it is square with rough edges and a shiny hard cover, but I sleep with it just the same. I rarely use my library card, preferring instead to hoard my money and spend my hard-earned cash on books, so after I am finished reading, I can keep them. One does not throw away their childhood stuffed animals; I cannot part with my books. Is there anything more delicious than picking up a brand new book, running your fingertips lovingly over the spine, feeling the rough edges of the pages as you flip through them, and finally—after much internal fanfare—opening the front cover and hearing the satisfying split of the binding. The split that marks the initiation of the brand-new to the lovingly treasured. The split that allows the book to say to the world: Not only was I anticipated, paid for with hard-earned currency, and read, I was treasured.
Perhaps the only thing more delicious than a brand-new book is an old tattered, worn-out book. These are the books that show I don’t just see words on a page or even just pictures in my mind. I see a time in space and a space in time. I know where I was and what was happening in my life during the read of these books. Each tattered copy marks not just a novel finished, but a landmark on my mind or—if I’m really lucky—in my life.
The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe was the first story (of many) that I remember haunting me. I could not—cannot—get away from it. I was not allowed to watch television growing up (a gift I will never be able to fully thank my mother for, despite the hours I spend in front of the TV now), so from an early age I watched television through the pictures in my head instead of on the screen. Even so, I was not prepared for Narnia, the lion, the witch, or most especially, the wardrobe. The idea that one could escape into a different world from such an ordinary, mundane thing as a closet! Although the story has dissipated somewhat in my mind, the memories of wonder, awe, and plain and simple pleasure have evolved from feelings to moments of time and space inside me. For me, Narnia is not found through a door in my closet, but inside a 7x10 inch square sitting on my bookshelf.
