Intoxication is the only way I know to describe it. It started happening almost a year ago when I first opened Ishmael by Daniel Quinn. Before that point I had never known that there were people that thought so much like I did. With each word I read I slowly found myself almost falling in love with the concepts. It was like everything that had been abstract for so long fell into place perfectly, a jigsaw completed. I finally realized I wasn’t alone, crazy, or naive. Or maybe I was all of those but alone.
With that book I continued on a quest to read more like it, and I started pummeling through them like they were Fudgescicles in July. How was I supposed to stop when each page opened my eyes and heart wider—I was having an affair with a genre of books. I found myself nearly in love with authors I knew nothing about—except that they agreed with me. For the first time in far too long I wasn’t the only “crazy” one.
I am still reading books by these authors, and others like them. Now it is not so much the shocked love I experienced when reading them at first, but a type of reverence. I know that this knowledge is not only useful, but necessary. I have a request list about three pages long at the library and six unread books at home from them. I have one being shipped to me from half.com right now. I just cannot stop. But could you?
If you opened a book that reflected back at you all of your deepest secrets, hopes, fears, and dreams would you put it down and walk away? Some may be addicted to drugs, alcohol, sex; I am addicted to books that seem to be written by my future self.
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