Imagine a sunny morning, with the sunshine streaming in through your curtains of linen, while you lie in bed, a comfortable bed, the weather perfectly complimenting your mood. There is a sparrow on the window sill, chirping away unto the glory of a perfect dawn, mindful of the realization that such dawns are not common to say the least. A gentle wind is blowing outside, the leaves of the tree elegantly swaying in an unspoken rhythm. This is when I would suggest you open Jerome K. Jerome’s ‘Idle Thoughts Of An Idle Fellow’, recline on those soft pillows, and commence.
Reading is a pleasantry that many amongst us forget to consider so. The joy of lifting a tome onto your lap, caressing its spine, whispering in its ears to fear not about spilling its secrets, and when the book feels it is at home, the pages turn crisp and there is a lilting fragrance in the air all of a sudden. That is when you know the book has opened up. Even if it is a book you have read before, there stands no difference between the first time you have read it and the second time. The thoughts and emotions that the lines provoke, the desires they fuel in the heart, the memories whose recollection of which they spark in your mind. Reading a book is like looking into the night sky on a romantic night. The moon is there, shy in its presence, conceding the feeling by dissembling into the mystery of the crescent. The contour of a perfect circle is visible behind its back, but if it wants to hide, let it hide. Demand naught. Turn the pages one by one, and collude with the conspiring words. The stars are out tonight, out hunting for damsels to enchant and for princes to guide, for dragons to beckon and for fairies to dream. The world suddenly seems a lonely place, devoid of true beauty. All that was fair and bright blanch in comparison, and memories fade into reluctant obscurity while you vainly attempt to hold on to them. There is a rumor in the air of magic and sorcery; the dead give ear in their silent graves. Words and ideas fly free into the tantalizing dark, yearning in all their truthfulness to discover more and become more.
Reading a book is an art that is self-taught no matter how hard you try to inculcate it through methods otherwise. It comes with reading as many books as possible and absorbing all of their secrets. They remain loyal through thick and thin, and they desert not your side when you are in need of company, be it in confidence or in solace. You can read them once, you can read them twice, you can read them for as long as you cherish and hold dear what stems from such experiences. Never disrespect a book. Keep it in your hand, and bear it forth with all pride, even if it were to be torn and decadent. A book is a book is a book; judge not its value by the beauty of its cover. It was born from the mind of an author who took time off to conceive an idea and put it down, and the book is the chivalrous torch bearer of all that it stands for, never for a moment failing to believe in itself. The ideas continue to dwell in its most polished soliloquies as well as in its most shady recesses for as long as the pages can bear them, and they will continue to do so for as long as mountains stand and rivers run. Defiling a book is like desecrating a memory: you can blemish, albeit superficially so, only what you agree or disagree to perceive, but continued vehemence in your disbelief never serves to change the truth itself.
When lining them up on a shelf, line them up so it is easier for you to pick them out. If you love all the books you own, erect them one against the other in a line, and you will begin to see, with a clear eye, into their heart of hearts, their steadfastness and their unabashed display of the same. According to me, more than a wallpaper or fancy wall paint, a house of walls each donning a shelf of rows and rows of books is the most decorated one. Besides just surging at the resident with what seems like a kaleidoscopic array of colors, the thousands of pages adorn the inner halls with dense wisdom that disperses into the air, free and untroubled, like a god-like spirit bearing spirited wings.
When holding a book in your palm, grasp it gently by the spine. Let it unfurl both ways; let the pages crackle like a roaring fire in a precipitous as you flip by their ears. Breathe in, breathe out, be in the present. Mind not the bogging hooks of the past, forget not the duties of the future, but, at the same time, ignore not nor infatuate yourself with the demands of the present. Just be. The book is opening. Feel it talking to you of the physics of the universe, the mystery of the night, the surprise of the morning, the incessant desire to live in all of us, the undying regret of the dead as they twitch in their graves. Commence. Let your eye fly from one word to another, from one sentence to another, from one tale to another. Crescendo. You should be feeling it by now, just as when Antony cried out, “Cry havoc and let loose the dogs of war!” Drown oblivious to all else that could matter. Succumb. You will resurrect no doubt, but you will resurrect a better man, a good man, a loving husband, a tender father, or perhaps all else that you could want to be!
Clathration Therapy 