A professor of mine once told me that if your bookshelf is broader than your closet, you either couldn’t afford designer jeans or you were keeping your wardrobe somewhere else. I tend to agree with the latter, though I have to admit my wardrobe is pretty extensive. What she meant, though, was that books are more than just their jackets- they are an accessory that we wear with us everywhere, constantly changing shades and textures as we carry them through our lives. Like a lover, some may fade and some may wreak havoc on our hearts (I’m looking at you John Green), but a love for literature is the most climatic affair that one could have without ever losing interest. Once you have a taste, it’s easy to become addicted.
For me, this craving for language was almost inherent and began living inside of me at a very early age. I was that kid who had a book and flashlight hidden beneath the pillow before bedtime just so I could read by the light of a forbidden moon, caught in a tangle of fictional characters and plot. I had a vast imagination and a weak filter between reality and fables, so it was easy for me to picture myself as an extension of every story. I didn’t have to be just one person. I could be anyone.
That theory still applies to me today, but in the past few years literature has become so much more to me than just the basics. Literature is celestial, a sum of tiny particles that gets shaped and reshaped, that once compact enough creates just enough light to shine though a sky of darkness. It gives us knowledge of different spaces and times, ideologies and fascinations. At its essence, literature is the closest thing we have to reading minds. Every word has been strung together with a thought, and it’s almost transcendent to read something by Dante from seven hundred years ago and find themes that are still relevant to our own lives. This is the ultimate payoff. There is a certain element of the human condition that will always be relevant, but there is no absolute truth as to which reality it belongs to. Literature doesn’t just skim across the water, but rather dives into the deep end of the pool, questioning everything and reconstructing truths. Nothing is ever just one thing; there will always be layers upon layers of metaphors and perceptions that constantly rearrange the meaning of our world.
I think many people write to interpret a reality. Not a singular reality, as in a space of omnipotent truth, but something more mobile, creative, and vulnerable. It’s our ability to find truth in not just what our world commands, but in what we create. Literature has been and always will be more than just words on a page. It’s an adventure. With every book, poem, or short story, you are encountering a new reality. It’s challenging yourself to experience what you don’t have the courage to try, to exploit your desires, and to fall into roles that may never fit the puzzle of your life. Our bodies may not move but our spirits certainly wander.
