Saga Written from the Belly of the Whale

It's very seldom that I find a book that I can truly devour--or, more accurately, be devoured by. I know you know what I mean. One of those books that steps in place of reality for a few days (or hours, depending on how fast you read) and makes you unable to focus on anything else. One of those books that sucks you in like a vacuum, and holds you fast in its grip from cover to cover. One of those books that you're so sorry to emerge from, dripping and soaked through with delightful literary wonder, so sorry that you may simple go back to the beginning and dive in again.

These books have seemed few and far between recently--perhaps as I've developed more discerning reading habits, or as I've become more distracted by life in general, it's become more difficult to find a book that will grab my attention and hold my respect. There have been many that I began reading excitedly, expecting to be enthralled, but eventually tossed aside with an emotion worse than disgust--disinterest. I won't dwell on these titles, (after all, I don't really remember most of them, and I may have just come at them at the wrong time) but I would like to share a few precious volumes that have really enchanted me--distracting me just enough from the denizen of daily life to grasp me in between their pages, or crawl beneath my skin with the delicious sensation of instant recognition.

This recognition is something that characterizes any successful reading relationship for me. (Yes, reading is a relationship. Don't laugh. You know it's true) That sense that I have somehow lived these pages, or that they are living through me. The feeling that I carry them with me, like a beautiful, burning treasure that I am bursting to share with the world. This recognition goes far beyond bland relatability. I remember once reading Charlotte (or was it Emily?) Bronte describe how they were able to write about situations they had never experienced--in paraphrase, she lay in bed every night imagining herself in that situation until writing about it came as naturally as setting down her own experience.

I can relate this feeling to my own writing somewhat--but what it symbolizes to me more potently is the symbiotic relationship between reader and writer. I feel that, with books I truly adore, I have lived the stories, walked with the characters, applied them to my life. Words are my sustenance.

This communion can come from any printed source--newspaper article, novel, poem, nonfiction. And it can come in different forms. I'm sure many can relate to the suspense filled feeling of reading a Harry Potter or Twilight novel. (Yes, it's pure coincidence that I mentioned those two titles in the same sentence--I know they're not in the least comparable) That is the feeling I alluded to before--being so totally absorbed that all occurences outside those pages pale into insignificant happenstance. I remember reading Eclipse over the space of a couple of days--at the climax, it was literally impossible for me to lift my eyes from the page. I had begun to despair of ever finding another book, let alone series, that could measure up to this level of obsession when I discovered, entirely by accident, the book Fireflies in December, a fabulous debut novel written by the author Jennifer Erin Valent.

Set in the South during the Great Depression, this stunningly seamless novel is a joy to read. It tells the story of Jessilyn Lassiter, a headstrong thirteen year old whose vibrant personality springs out from the page. When Jessilyn's family adopts her best friend Gemma, Jessilyn is overjoyed. But little does she expect what trouble it will bring them. Gemma is black, unlike the Lassiter's, and Jessilyn and her family soon find themselves facing threats from prejudiced neighbors and hearing mysterious rumors of the Klu Klux Klan. Driven by questions of faith and prejudice, this book encompasses much more than it would appear. Yet it manages to convey a deep moral sense without becoming to heavy or philosophical. Needless to say, I enjoyed it immensely and I couldn't reccomend it more highly. I was overjoyed to find that not only is the author on www.goodreads.com, and fully open to correspondence with her humble readers, but there is a sequel and a soon-to-be third book (trequel?). The sequel, Cottonwood Whispers, may have been, if possible, even more enjoyable. I finished it in under 24 hours and I could not bear to put it down. Valent writes with the confidence of one born and bred in the region she is describing, and her prose is majestic and deeply wise. I was so grateful to find this book (just when I was running out of nourishing reading material) that I cannot talk about it enough.

Fireflies in December, and even moreso, Cottonwood Whispers, was just one of those books. I didn't even really expect to like it; I came across it entirely by accident and picked it up casually. But I was gripped from the very first page. This was one of those times when the connection was immediate and absolute, enduring throughout the time it took to read the book.

These connections, hastily established, are worth having but by no means the only way to enjoy a book. Some of the titles that have given me the greatest pleasure it took me months (or years) to finish, because I had to absorb each and every moment and felt like I was overdosing if I read more than a chapter a day (or every couple of weeks). The Once and Future King, which I now consider my favorite novel, literally took me years to finish. It wasn't easy, but it was worth it. People spend years reading Moby Dick or Leaves of Grass or The Bible. In fact, it can be argued that that is the only way to properly read them. But that makes them none the less worthwhile.

When I was reading Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows, I took my time, reading only one chapter a day, and finishing it in just over a month (a century in Potter years). My reasons were simple: I wanted to savor it, and I was loathe for it to end. So, simply, I took my time. And I'm glad I did so.

Right now I'm reading a biography of Woodrow Wilson, quite possibly my favorite President, by John Milton Cooper, which is aptly titled Woodrow Wilson: A Biography and clocks in at an impressive 704 pages. I've had to renew it from the library several times by now, but I am determined not to give up. Unlike some (okay, many) nonfiction authors, Cooper writes in an engaging and, most importantly, unpretentious style. His account of Wilson covers every aspect of the latter's life, and I personally find it fascinating. No, I'm not going to burn through it like I did with every Harry Potter book up until the 7th, but I'm going to finish it, and enjoy it just as much. Nonfiction has an appeal all its own that I was entirely unaware of until the last year or so. Give me a good biography or scientific volume any day over a poorly written bestselling novel.

A while ago, I read a fabulous, wonderful, amazing, enthralling, book called The Chosen. Written by Chaim Potok, it tells the story of two teenage Jewish boys living in New York City during the 1940s. One of the boys is the son of a Hasidic Rabbi, and the other is the son of an intellectual Zionist. It is impossible to describe the delicate power of this book. No matter how disinteresting the premise may sound, I urge you to try it. I have very little appreciation for baseball, and I don't normally enjoy watching it, let alone reading about it. Nevertheless, I found myself enthralled by the opening chapter, which describes nothing less than a baseball game.

When I read this book with my friends, we all expressed the same feeling--that, for some reason we could hardly explain--it attracted us and drew us in.

 I did not read this book as quickly or voraciously as I have many others--such as the aforementioned Cottonwood Whispers--nor yet as slowly as a great number of titles.

It was a middle ground reading experience, a deep yet transitory friendship, as opposed to a lifelong relationship or a passionate, momentary embrace. When I use these qualifiers--"momentary", "transitory"--I mean them in the most positive way possible. I am referring to the actual time spent reading, not the time spent mulling over the plot or considering the characters, not the amount of times my thoughts return to the book after I've finished it. By that criteria, all the books I mentioned above are just about on the same level. But in terms of mere length of time spent reader, they vary greatly.

This morning I read the first chapter of My Name is Asher Lev, a book by Chaim Potok, the author of The Chosen. I was immediately drawn in, and amazed once again by the author's breadth of knowledge and seemingly effortless ability to construct narratives of simplicity laced with aching beauty. I think I have found, once again, a book that will devour me, body and soul. I'll see you later. Time to get back to reading.