It is a presumptuous title, I know, but the interrelationship between reading and life is evident. Teenage girls go through a phase, reading “Wuthering Heights”, “The Twilight Saga”, and all things romantic. Pregnant women read “What to expect, when you’re expecting” and the like. Our motivations for reading may be many and diverse, but the result is always sitting down in our favorite chair/couch/sunbed to read a book or a whole truck load of books.
Right now, I am in the opposite situation. The book on my night stand is gathering dust – figuratively speaking. I have not read in it for days. But I know why. I am restless. In a matter of days, I am packing up my family and home, moving 4000 kilometers back to my home town and/or into complete uncertainty – I have not decided yet. I’ll have a lovely, but temporary, roof over my head, no job, no income, and no day care for my son. Change with a capital C. Big time. With worst case scenarios, fantasies, speculations, plans, and general mental chaos, reading is impossible.
At the same time, books are very present as the physical objects inhabiting an entire room in my home and the stories, characters, and themes, playing peek-a-boo in my thoughts.
I have often wondered about people who do not read and do not share their home with books. Where do they find inspiration, solace, and entertainment? I am grateful for the books, stories, and characters that are part of my life.