Confessions of a Bibliophile

I try and try to accurately recollect it, but I can't. I can venture a guess and probably hit the mark, but that won't be the same as truly knowing.
I want to know what is the first book I ever read.
I'm assuming it was one of those cute little picture books with Cinderella and Peter Pan. But again, I'm not sure.

I was thinking about this when I was up till 3 reading last night. (I was re-re-reading 1984, if you must know.) My sister still finds it incredulous that I read for fun, and that I don't have a perpetual book report assignment! The fact that I can stay up all night reading novels of my interest, but have trouble keeping my eyes open by twelve a.m. the night before my board exam troubles her. It is now common for my father to get up in the middle of the night for water, find my reading light on and me curled up under my blanket with a book.

A large part of me is defined by my love for books, and consequently, for the written word. What started off as being mesmerized by fairy tales and using the word "famished" instead of hungry at age 5, has now turned into something I cannot even sleep without.

There is one lady I would like to blame for this.
Her name is Enid Blyton.
I devoured every single book she served, and every chapter of my childhood has the indelible imprint of a Blyton book. From my innocent little Noddy days to naughty prankster Amelia Jane, from the adventurous Famous Five series to the Oh-I'm-a--grown-up-girl Mallory Towers books.
Although there is no retirement age for Enid Blyton, I switched loyalties by the end of 5th grade to the dark, gloomy, mysterious world of Agatha Christie and Arthur Conan Doyle. Yes, I admit to falling head over heels in love with Sherlock Holmes. And I always found comfort in grandmotherly Miss Marple to solve a small-town murder. Soon enough, I entered the eccentric little world of Roald Dahl and the Big Friendly Giant became my best friend. :)
Then, in 7th grade, my English teacher goaded me to read classics. When I first placed hands on the paperback Jane Eyre, I didn't know what to think. For one thing, it was fat and bulky! And the vocabulary was beyond my comprehension! I had no clue what the words conventionality, self-righteousness, clamored and agonized meant. I sat with a dictionary, underlined words and slowly, I learned.
I discovered that I loved words sometime around then. And it is a discovery that has shaped a huge portion of my 17 years on this lonely planet.

I can write about discovering Sidney Sheldon, Jeffrey Archer, John Grisham, Lee Child, James Patterson and the like. But you get the drift. I really started enjoying books. I used to love going to the school library and picking out these books.

But now, with college and work, I find myself unable to devote as much time to my books. When I return home at 9 p.m., I am too tired to divert my energies towards a McCarthy or Murakami. Numbing televised entertainment is all I can take for an hour before I crash my head into my pillow.

However, I eagerly wait for Friday and Saturday nights for a marathon book read, so I can wake up leisurely over the weekend. On those days, the thrill of written words takes over. I am magically transported to make-believe worlds where I can imagine characters and situations that are NOT conjured by television networks. I trust literature to challenge my perceptions and enrich my intellect. Time flies when I set my mind and eyes on some good writing, and I forget all about an unfinished episode. The pleasant smell of old books as I stand a few inches from my bookshelf, the yellowing old pages of a Jeffrey Archer, the comforting weight of a book in my hands- it all reminds me why reading is the most satisfying and compelling experience.

I think I'll read a Famous Five sometime soon. I just need my Blyton shot. :)