by Svetlana Konnikova
We had thousands of books in our home library. Reading was one of my favorite pastimes, especially in winter. We didn’t spent too much time with computers and computers games, and speaking endless minutes on the mobile. We didn’t watch television broadcasts with boring, upsetting news and undelivered promices by politicians. It could never have substituted or competed anyway with the world od classic literature and music.
I savored the time I had to read masterpieces of literature, created by talented people throughout the world through the centuries. I convinced myself that the books would put me in fascinating adventures and voyages, and would substitute successfully in the wintertime for all the fine, soft-petaled spring flowers; the bounty of sweet-smelling summer blossoms and herbs, their scents made stronger by the heat of the summer sun.
I imagined that the books I held in my hands were paper flowers, blooming with brilliant human thoughts, so I developed a “strange habit.” It amazes me now how dedicated I was to reading and how I read each book voraciously as if I were a starving peasant with an insatiable appetite, gobbling down each word if it were my last bit of bread, my last drop of honey. I read volume after volume of Jules Vern’s science fiction, Alexandre Dumas novels, and James Fennimore Cooper’s colorful adventures in the wild West.
I devoured the works of Leo Tolstoy, Anton Chekhov, Fyodor Dostoyevsky, Honore de Balzak, Gustave Flaubert, Theodore Dreiser’s dramas, Dante Alighieri, William Shakespeare’s tragedies, and Walt Whitman’s poems. It was a feeding frenzy. I never stopped reading an author’s collection. I read volume after volume until I finished all of them. It was my passion. I read all of their works, including the epistle genre: the letters they wrote to loved ones, friends, and other writers. Do you think I changed a little bit? I continue to read great books with the same passion day by day, year by year.
Today I would like to share with you my thoughts about Alexandre Dumas, a superstar of 19th century French literature. He was one of my favorite writers in the middle school. Fascinating adventures of his heroes in masterpieces like The Three Musketters and The Count of Monte Cristo fired my imagination, and I dreamed of far-away, mysterious places where three musketeers and the Count of Monte Cristo have been living their exciting life, their “joie de vivre.”
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