I Read Ya
Reading to Live, Read to Learn, Read to Live
Sophia's fingers trailed along the spines of ancient tomes, dust motes dancing in the sunlight that filtered through the expansive windows of her grand library. This was a sanctuary where the whispers of the past echoed between the shelves, where each book was a world unto itself, waiting to be discovered. Sophia chose a leather-bound volume, its pages yellowed with time and settled into her favourite armchair. She opened the book, and as her eyes scanned the first line, she inhaled the musky scent of old paper, surrendering to the world crafted by an author long since passed.
"Do not read, as children do, to amuse yourself, or like the ambitious, for the purpose of instruction." — Gustave Flaubert (1821-1880)
Sophia chuckled to herself, thinking how once, as a child, she read for the sheer delight of stories that spirited her away to fantastical realms. As a young adult, she devoured textbooks with a voracious hunger for knowledge, her ambition driving her to excel in her studies. But now, she read to connect with the world, understand the human condition, and live lives she never could outside the realm of printed words.
"No, read in order to live."
As the day waned, the room took on the golden hue of twilight, casting elongated shadows that danced upon the walls. Sophia felt herself living through the characters, their joys, their joys, their sorrows, their sorrows. She was a silent observer, a participant in a life bounded only by imagination and words.
Outside the walls of Sophia's library, the world hustled by in ignorant bliss of the lives and lessons encapsulated within her sacred texts. People sought the kind of knowledge found in instructions and self-help guides, never realizing the deeper nourishment for the soul found in literature. They were starving for the very sustenance that Sophia feasted on each day.
As night fell, Sophia placed a silk bookmark between the pages of her current adventure and glanced at the clock. Time had slipped away once more, as it always did when she was immersed in another life. Her life was richer for it; she knew it with every fibre. In the morning, she would return to this chair, to this room, and to live again.
The next day brought with it the familiar comfort of routine. Sophia entered her library with the morning sun casting a fresh light on the endless possibilities that awaited her. She picked up where she had left off, allowing the narrative to envelop her fully. She laughed out loud at a particularly witty dialogue between characters, her laughter echoing off the high ceilings.
Suddenly, there was a knock on the door. Alexander, her neighbour, often marvelled at Sophia's dedication to her books. He stood there, an amused smile playing on his lips.
"Sophia, are you reading to live again?" he asked, a twinkle in his eye.
"Yes, Alexander," she replied with a smirk. "Would you care to join me?"
Together, they delved into the pages, sharing laughter and profound silence, which only comes when words on a page touch something deep within. It was in these moments that Sophia truly understood Flaubert's wisdom. Reading wasn't an escape from life; it was a way to embrace it fully, live countless lives, feel boundless emotions, and connect with humanity across the ages.
She would read not to amuse herself nor for instruction but to live a life rich with the experiences of all those who had written and lived before her. And as she turned each page with Alexander beside her, Sophia knew that she was living the most extraordinary story of all—her own.
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