My, let's call it obsession with books, became obvious at a very young age. I learned how to read when I was about 4 or 5, mostly by my siblings and mother. I later learned to read a lot better while I was reading TV shows to my grandmother (TV novellas, Spanish to be exact). That somehow developed my love for languages and Spanish drama :)
I discovered a whole new world when I started reading books and my parents had an impressive library. I remember the high shelf I could barely reach, on my tiptoes, I remember the smell the whole room had and each book on it's own. They were old, fainted and some even made a sound when opened after so many years.
As a visual type, my head began to fill up with imagination with every new line that crossed my eyes. I would sit in a comfortable chair my father brought from Russia all those years ago, I would play with the torn peaces of string on the seat with one hand, holding a book in the other. Absorbing every word, adding it to the paintings in my mind.
I've read everything and anything I could get my hands on. From religious books, novels, adventures, poetry, biographies and fiction. You name it, I've tried to read it. And there comes the plot of our story for today. I Tried. I mentioned this in one of my blogs and I said I would write more about it, so here it is.
The thing looks very simple to the outside observer, a little girl that loves reading so much, that she sometimes in her obsession takes a bigger bite than she can swallow. In a form of two, three or even more books at the same time. This little habit of mine started at collage, where as a law student, I had a lot on my plate to read already, but that never stopped me from reading outside the box. Even when my subjects had thousands of pages to go through, I almost always had a book or two by my side, to read in the pause.
But there was a limited space in my head and in my daily schedule to read a few books at the same time, and I would just pick a favorite among them and continue with just one. It would be perfectly logical that once I finish that one, I would grab the one I already started, but no. The less interesting ones over time made a place for themselves on my book shelf.
Yes, now I had my own shelf. Some books were a gift, some inherited from my parents and all of them were one of the heaviest things you have to carry when you move. Now I could reach my books with ease, with out stretching and jumping as a little girl, to see what title to go next to. I remember that some titles were so long that I had to jump multiple times to read the whole thing, then be out of breath and decide for some book on the lower shelf.
And there on the highest shelf on my new cabinet sat all the books I never finished. Some of them are so famous I'm almost embarrassed to say that I never really read them through the end. Most of them still have a little piece of paper, a dry leaf or something to remind me where I stopped my reading. But those leaves and papers have been waiting a long time to be moved to some other page. I often wonder why I never go back to those books, but I never actually do.
They are by no means a boring thing to read, there isn't such a word I can associate with any book I've read, boring. But they are waiting on me, like well behaved children, quietly keeping their secrets in between covers, for one lucky day when all other books are read and it's their turn to shine.
Maybe some books are not meant to be read fully, out of fear of disappointment in the end written by the author. Maybe, it's my imagination that stops me from accepting that sometimes things don't end up the way I wanted to. Who knows, they may all be read by the next year or two.
With love,
Tamara
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I can totally relate to this. I love books, it always took me to another level but there are just some books that aren't meant to be finished, I'm trying to make mental notes to finish all books I start.
Right?
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