It’s hard to write, if you’re not reading. A very simple fact.
The last book I read was Pamuk’s Snow. It took a lot of effort, and resilience to finish it. I’m not sure why, at any other time I would’ve devoured it in a day. The story is beautifully written, and the scenery is breathtaking. Nonetheless, it took me 43 days, to be exact, to finish it.
I’ve never been this far away from the written word.
I miss the thick yellow pages of our Library. My father had a passion for the old novels printed in the 1930s-1960, when paper still had a texture, when every book had a distinct smell. He passed that down to me.
I spent hours on end flipping and reading Churchill’s war memoirs. I loved the smell it left on my fingers after I put it back on the shelf.
It was Jubran that put my little heart’s ache into words. I was 10, and she sat behind me in class, the most beautiful girl that ever wore that brown uniform.
I loved reading them times and times again. It was all too easy for me to start over from the beginning and go through the story as if it was the very first time. I might have read Farewell to Arms more than twenty times, yet it never failed to shake me all over again.
I can’t help thinking of all these characters, not characters, but people. All these people that I’ve come to meet, and care for. It’s disturbing to think they’re all nothing but a product of one’s mind, just like Sophie in Sophie’s World.
The words of these novels feel so far away now, but that distinct smell of age lingers on. It reminds me how tired I am of, and how terrible I am at this passive game of waiting.