I was twelve years old when I scanned through the beautifully bound books that comprised our family library. I don’t know why I decided on that particular day to look through these volumes. Perhaps it was cold outside and the idea of curling up with a book in a cozy room was alluring. Whatever the case, I remember very well the book I chose: Jane Eyre.
Ah, what a transformative choice that proved to be. Jane, Mr. Rochester, Bertha Mason, oh my. Who knew that a story could be so dark; so compelling? From there, I picked up Wuthering Heights. If one Bronte sister was good, then two might even be better. And, of course, that was exactly the case. Who can compete with the love story of Heathcliff and Catherine? How brooding and romantic. And then I headed off to Mutiny on the Bounty. Dear Lord, Fletcher Christian versus Captain Bligh.
I don’t remember the books that followed, but it hardly matters. Over that year I stumbled into a treasure trove of wonderful stories that grabbed me by both lapels and yanked me firmly out of my little Texas town and into vivid other worlds where people grappled with dark and haunting problems that had no simple solutions. I fell in love with the written word and have spent much of my adult life either reading and editing other people’s stories or writing my own.
My mother read to me every night when I was young so love is wrapped up in the whole activity of reading – I still remember the warmth of Mama’s body as I snuggled against her. She also was the person who gathered up that library of books. Without them, my life would have been different. But the characters are the primary reason for my love of literature. They demonstrate the complexity of the human condition as they tangle with love, hate, greed, pride and envy. Their fight is my fight and I learn from them. How lucky I am to have such teachers. How lucky we all are to have them.
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