Some friends and I recently inaugurated a book club; current membership totals 5, possibly 6, hopefully increasing monthly. Considering how voraciously I’ve been reading this summer, I’m glad that this establishment will guarantee the continuation of reading in the name of enjoyment. I'm excited to select which book we read when it's my turn!
The majority of my repertoire is composed of the abiding classics. My particular favorite is Brit lit, but lately I’ve been delving deeper into the banya of Russian literature; they are the kind of books you have to sweat out, but you feel profoundly refreshed once you’ve finished them.
Reading is my escapism. The existential world of fiction was not crafted directly by God, and yet it has many of the same (and often greater, because the there are no physical limits) awe-inspiring characteristics as the world we live in. It is the ink of printed words, not blood, which flows through the characters’ veins and gives them life. It is the pages that capture with rapture our attention, pulling us into exotic or even mundane scenarios where we participate as silent witnesses to a panorama of humanity unfolding. Reading is magic and chaos neatly pressed between two covers. I love it.
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