My idea of a great vacation involves hiding away with a good book and avoiding human contact for days at a time.
So, I finished my last midterm, stopped by the bookstore and retired to my cave.
What I seem to forget each and every time I pick up a new book is that books have always had the ability to literally ruin my life (at least for a second). Anyways, I started reading. I thought I would maybe get a couple chapters in before moving on to anything else. Maybe read a bit of something else, take a nap, who knows; it’s vacation.
Instead, I sat by myself and read a 400 page book in one sitting. And then I cried, a lot.
If you have not seen the trailer for the upcoming film "Me Before You," I’ve included it below. So that you might feel a sliver of the pain I felt reading the book that film is based on.
Why on earth do books do this to me? Or to anyone for that matter. I promise that I have never had an experience that remotely relates to the one I read and cried about. Truly never. And yet, I am still suffering through the consequences.
The truth, or the truth I need to believe, is that these literary experiences effect me, us, so much because they remind us of the emotions in our own life that we are afraid to feel. And not always the bad ones. I also recently read "Wild," the story of an inexperienced hiker who chooses to hike one of the most difficult trails in the world -- the Pacific Crest Trail. To no surprise, I often found myself holding back (or more likely, not holding back) tears as I read about her personal triumph and happiness.
"Me Before You" reminded me that I am often afraid to address the pain in my life, but "Wild' reminded me that I’m afraid to fully feel the happiness that I am probably fully entitled to. This is a deep analysis of a hobby that can seem rather trivial, but for me, it makes sense.
Books provide a refuge, but also a mirror. Good books are marked by characters that are relatable and likable but great books are marked by plot lines that help people realize things about ourselves that have the power to bring people together. This seemingly singular activity unites people with their feelings and with each other. I cannot count the number of times I have made a friend because they have understood my love for a plot line that might have nothing to do with my life.
I know that this experience might be one that only I hold. A small faction of readers spend their time plowing through lengthy novels in one sitting despite tear filled eyes and a broken heart. But when we do have these experiences, if they happen in a day or a year, with a book or a movie, they have the power to unite people in ways they didn’t know were possible and, maybe, if we’re lucky, distract us from our divisions.
As promised (please, for the love of God, grab a tissue):
