Happiness is Reading
Well, my daughter told me it’s Happiness Day this week, but then she informed me I wasn’t a happy person so forget it.
I wouldn’t say I’m not a happy person. I tend to look at things pessimistically. My life is full of what-ifs? On the other hand, I did meet and marry my husband in two months. That made me happy.
What makes me happy every day is settling down at nap time and reading something engaging. Yes, I take a nap every day, I have ever since college. See, that’s another thing on my happiness agenda.
I can’t remember ever not reading. But why has my reading veered so sharply toward Angleterre, as the French so fittingly call England? It probably started in junior high school, what we at the time called grade school. I picked up “Tom Brown’s School Days,” by Thomas Hughes. Oh, how I identified with Tom.
Then there was “Jane Eyre,” by Charlotte Bronte. I liked the part when she was in school, but found Mr. Rochester rather a bore. And a few years later, “Lady Chatterley’s Lover,” by D. H. Lawrence. Interesting, but frankly not that stimulating. I had to pay to borrow it because my mother refused to let me get it from the library. After I finished, before I returned it, she read it. How fair is that!
English mysteries really saved my life the first time I went to England. It happened thusly: I’m a great browser of used book stands like those that were behind St. Martins in the Field along with stores in Charing Cross. Have money, will buy.
It was a family event where my father was driving us from London to Scotland. I sat in the middle, between my brother and sister and read as if my life depended on it. Why? Because my father circled London all morning, trying to find the road north, and the only way I could protect myself from the trauma—and language—of that experience was by total immersion in literature. My father wasn’t a calm man normally. This set him over the top—in top-blowing. And then, when we did manage to leave London behind, the rental car broke down. A trip to remember.
Why do I think English mysteries are better than American ones? I don’t know. Maybe that fateful drive directed the rest of my reading.
College reaffirmed my love of English literature. Well, in one case Irish-American. “The Ginger Man,” by J. P. Donleavy. I don’t think I’ve ever laughed more. Of course, it wasn’t part of any course. In fact, most of the English literature I loved was found, not taught, except for Shakespeare, of course. Can you imagine that now you can get a degree in English without reading Shakespeare? Or any of the Elizabethan poets?
The world has gone to hell in a hand basket.
Graham Greene. After reading “Brighton Rock,” I devoured everything he wrote. “The Power and the Glory” still thrills me and makes me think about the rippling effect of our everyday actions.
I will admit to never liking Charles Dickens. I suppose my dislike started with Classic Comics, perhaps their version of “David Copperfield.” Then I was forced at some point to read “Great Expectations.” They weren’t exceeded.
But Henry Makepeace Thackeray? “Vanity Fair” is life. It has it all. Followed by Anthony Trollope and the “Chronicles of Barsetshire.” How sad I was to leave all of them.
It’s not that I haven’t read the American canon. “Moby Dick,” by Hermon Melville is one of my all-time favorites. But the Twentieth Century authors, the male authors, honestly, what bores! However, our poets are sublime.
I will admit to not being a “serious reader” anymore. Gone all the days when I would linger over Wordsworth and Tennyson or hear that fly of Emily Dickinson’s. I don’t really even go into the library that much since there is Libby, which delivers library books right to my iPad. Is that heresy? But every time I pick up a book to read, even if said book is on the iPad, I learn something. Sometimes it’s that the book isn’t worth my time. No longer will I slog through another “War and Peace.” But if I ever get to London again, you can find me at Hatchards, perusing the new arrivals—and marveling at the price!