Some people read to escape the world, their lives, the ringing of the telephone, the incessant blurb in the bottom of your screen that tells you that you have another email, the screaming of your children. Some people open books at night so that they’ll think about a romance which pales in comparison to their own, or carpet rides, Arabian nights, a handsome vampire who will whisk you away from the angst you still feel when you think about high school.
Some people read to escape.
I read to remain. Books don’t take you away from the world; they bring you closer. They amplify the sounds of grass growing. They force your ears to the chests that hide beleaguered hearts, and bellies that churn with indecision. With gentle articulation, authors make the world tangible, graspable, digestible.
Books aren’t wings, they’re cement shoes.