I find it hard to imagine what would life be like without books. In fact, I do not remember that early part of my life when I couldn’t read. I had 2 favourite places growing up: our comfortably wide windowstill, which, with the help of some cushions was the brightest place to read during the summer, and the big armchair next to the fireplace during the winter. Unlike other parents who complain about their kids for not studying enough, my mum always tried to trick me into putting my books down and going.
You and her, we couldn’t be any more different. She’s short, dark-haired, lean and outgoing, the heart of any party all her life. I’m tall, dark blonde, fat and my happiest moments are those of solitary. But the one thing we’ve always shared is the love of books. Admittedly, her books were of romantic nature while I could always digest any and every story come my way but our house was never short of shelves of stacked books even if she wished I was more of a party girl.
I’ve lived a thousand lives, fought a thousand battles, loved a thousand men. I’ve suffered death, I’ve conquered countries, I’ve solved crimes. I’ve lived through history, visited never-existing lands, built civilisations in my mind.
My parties came out of the pages with unicorns and detectives and submarines and butterflies, fiction and history, love and murder, light and heavy literature. They were there when I felt abandoned or happy, crying or laughing. I always felt better in the safety of the writers than the dangers of real life.
Where would I be without books, can’t imagine. Today’s thanks goes out to all the writers, story-tellers, unaware of the lives they save, the lives they gift the world with.