Writing is easy. All you have to do is take a paper and bleed. At most of the times, you don’t even have to think much; it comes out as a result of some reminiscence or retrogression. And it’s only after that- the power of one’s subconscious mind and a writer’s creativity come into the picture.
I am not sure about other loves, but loving a writer is easy. Like every other love it just happens. You know it from the first chapter and as you progress through their book you start finding solace in their words. The book becomes your refuge, and the writer your chaperone. As is the case with me, I can read anything written by my favourite author, Rohinton Mistry. I knew it when I was reading my now-all-time-favourite and then just another must-read-books- ‘A Fine Balance’ by him. And, after having read over 30 other brilliant books after it from across the globe, now I say it with conviction. That’s the kind of power I am talking here about. It’s not simple to make people put their efforts and invest their time into reading you. And when I say it, I mean that you don’t simply read a book, you read the person who wrote it. And I am a strong believer in the fact that fiction is the indeed the best non-fiction, for it shows the world it’s shame in a more elaborate way and without the fear of being pointed out.
Words are mighty, and writers the conjurers. That’s how deep the words infuse in you. You never meet the author (except a few lucky ones who stumble across them, and I envy them). But you still love them and you continue doing so forever. That is how you express your gratitude to them. Someone asks you about your favourite book and they are the first thing that comes to your mind. You turn ecstatic at the very thought about the time when you started reading that book in the first place. And there’s no way you call it a day without going through a quote or a couple of pages of that book on such days.
But you didn’t come here to read about easy things, did you? Let’s talk about something abstruse then. Something that is as deceptive as a charlatan’s motives, and perhaps even more. Let’s contemplate reading.
I, of all, agree that Reading is onerous at first and that it’s not easy being a reader. It’s so, not because it’s profound, but due to the very fact that we have a natural disinclination towards things requiring commitments, and efforts, and of course the most ferocious fear that what if it won’t be worth of all those efforts and commitment. Almost every other person loves music and ardently calls listening to music as their hobby only because it doesn’t require many efforts on the part of the listener. We all have our portable music players and bingo! Plug in the earphones, click on the play button, shut the eyes close and ignore the goddamn world. Well, let’s not digress. And so, of all the art forms out there, reading perhaps is the most tedious because it requires a lot of efforts. Efforts to buy a book, to hold it, to devour it, to look up for the words you don’t know, to stay focused, to imagine, to go out of that world when you don’t want to, and above all the irksomeness that comes along the endless desire to get into the book again when the other trivilaties won’t let you do so.
Making the post any longer would be ironical. And, now that I have told you how abstruse reading really is, and knowing yourself to be the one always up for the challenges, why don’t you pick up a good book, any book, no matter the size, regardless of the genre; and just start reading. And feel the difference.
And oh, the subtlety with which the books make you humane is amongst the most pleasurable things.
As Harper Lee quoted, “Until I feared I would lose it, I never loved to read. One does not love breathing.”
Happy Reading, People.