I was out for an evening with a friend, getting the relief from pressure and catching up on our lives. We got around to the subject of books.
"When do you read?" My friend asked me. My mind took off on a fast journey through my bookshelves and piles of looks. I know some people make artsy towers and pyramids out of books, but I'm not that kind of woman. Mine are just…stacks (摞). Stacks on end tables, stacks on the floor.
When do I read? I read when I'm when I'm happy. I read when I'm bored. I read when I'm defeated. I read when I'm filled with anxiety. My self-medication for the thoughts is not exercise or alcohol, but Jane Austen. I absolutely must slow down the pace of my thoughts when living through a walk to the town Meryton in Pride and Prejudice. I read to visit places I'll never see in real life. Thank you, Vikram Seth, for making me completely involved in 1950s India. Thank you, Khaled Hosseini, for giving me a chance to see 1970s high society of New York City, I'll spend some time with Edith Wharton. I read when I'm recalling the good old days. Many of my favorite books of childhood are still my favorite books. I read when I get so addicted to an author that I want to read everything she has ever written, including her Christmas cards and grocery lists.
Of course, I didn't say any of these things to my friend. I stared at her with a blank, foolish look.
"When do I read?" I repeated.
"Yes. When do you find time?" she asked.
"When? Evenings. Bedtime. Dinnertime, if I'm eating alone. Sunday afternoons. Moments stolen here and there. And now if you'll excuse me, I have a date with Mr. Hemingway," I said.