When I was about nine years old, I read Charlie and The Chocolate Factory, by Roald Dahl. I had borrowed the book from the library, started reading the book after school and was amazed by the story. Especially the part about chocolate; the description of millions of chocolate bars that were desperately torn open by so many people to try to find the golden ticket, got to me so much that the next day I ran to the local milk bar bought a chocolate bar, took it home and hid it under my pillow with a torch.
Why did I do that? You may ask?
Well the answer is simple, I was planning to stay up way past my bedtime re-reading the parts I loved all whilst biting into a real chocolate bar. After the lights turned off in my household and good nights were said, I waited and waited until knew that all the adults were fast asleep. I grabbed my torch, flicked it on and stuck my head under the blankets and read the book again. When it came to the part of the character Charlie eating the chocolate bar he had bought with no winning ticket inside, I devoured my chocolate at the same time. Then I switched my torch off and fell asleep with a satisfied grin.
The next day when I placed the book on the library return shelf…I felt a sense of loss. That book was a little treasure to me and now I was forced to get back to real life and try to come to terms with not being part of the popular group of kids. They came from good backgrounds, lived in proper houses with Australian parents, not migrant ones like my parents were and in a tiny flat. They had their own bedrooms, access to many of the latest toys and no need to borrow anything as the popular kids had money to buy what they wanted. So that’s how my first relationship started with a book, it held my attention and helped me escape into another world of possibility. The character Charlie obtained a chocolate factory, not because of his background but because of his good character. That novel inspired me to dream.
Time went past and books were not at the forefront of my mind, but one day when I had grown and moved into my own apartment, I started a new more adult relationship with books. It was John Grisham’s book A Time To Kill blurb of racial injustice played out in a courtroom drama that enticed me to give this book a read. The relationship with the book turned out to be accessible with easy to read words and that enabled me to immerse myself into the powerful story. I did not have the distraction of highbrow complex writing to figure out. I will be forever grateful to the writer John Grisham for writing the way he does as it made it easy for me to read his stories therefore could fully enjoy them. That experience enticed me to expand my relationship and start reading Bryce Courtney books like The Power Of One and The Potato Factory, and I was hooked again. I devoured those books and they taught me new perspectives about different ways of thinking and countries.
Life then took over and I am ashamed to admit that left my relationship with books and started an affair with TV. I watched the moving images and didn’t have to do anything. No page turning, no reading, all the work and imagination were done for me. This went on for a bit, until one day I was browsing in a bookstore with no exact intentions of buying anything. A book cover caught my eye; it was the latest book of Haruki Marakami called Colourless Tsukuru Tazaki and His Years of Pilgrimage. I picked it up and thought, what’s this? Then decided to read the blurb. It read interesting, unusual so I bought the novel and took it home to read. Well I have to reveal the relationship with this book was intense, and it kept me up all night with the most poetic, complex, unique storytelling. After finishing this book, I put it down but did not stop my relationship with the writer; I went and bought his other books, read them well into late night, until the early morning light peeped through. His extraordinary novels Kafta on the Shore and Men Without Women excited my senses.
Over all my relationship with books has been on and off. But now and then like Haruki Marukami’s novels, a book comes along that I cannot put down, for example Convenience Store Women, by Sayaka Murata or Picnic in the Storm, by Yukiko Motoya, The Slap, by Christos Tsiolkas and Elegance of the Hedgehog by Muriel Barbery.
This relationship with books started young, and is continuing on through my life. Sometimes it becomes intense and we stay in bed together until dawn, other times, I leave the relationship to explore Netflix, movies and live music. However there is something about the written word that is so sexy, so beautifully intense and thought provoking. The way a written story can bring out sadness or joy inspires me. My relationship with books has allowed me to imagine on my own without anyone adding frills on top.
I am not sure exactly how long this relationship will last and of course I am not naïve to think that other mediums of storytelling might not entice me, however I somehow know that the relationship with books will always come back. It’s something that stays with me.
What is your relationship with books? Do you read? If you do, my best wishes for the relationship to be exciting and fulfilling all the way through.