This thought hit me as I was situating my fourth book into my purse today. Thank God current fashion dictates large purses, otherwise I would be left with a small bag and perhaps only one of my cherished books to keep me company. (Not to mention the fact that Atlast Shrugged, one of my all time favorite novels, would never fit in a clutch.) On the menu for todays reading pleasure: Speaker for the Dead by Orson Scott Card (part of the Enders Game series which is incredibly brilliant), Surprised by Joy by C.S. Lewis (one of the very few books that I will read over and over again), The Bhagavad Gita (Hindu epic), and last but far from least The Romantic Manifesto by Ayn Rand. A little something for whatever mood shall strike. Apparently I am anticipating moods that swing from earthy, Hindu poetry to bugger wars on Lusitania. I have never claimed to be sane. This only fuels that fire.
I have an incorrigible mind that fails to see the severity of escapism. For that is what a book elicits for me; an escape. A beautiful traverse away from the mundane, away from the sad, away from the broken. Not to say I live a mundane, sad existence. I just happen to find beauty in the creation of the written word.
A story lends itself in the most vulnerable of fashions. It allows you to partake of its existence in every sensory way imaginable. It enables you to free yourself and live vicariously, if only for a moment, through the eyes of another. If not for Douglas Adams, I would never have traveled the galaxy with a towel and the knowledge that 42 is THE answer. Jack Kerouac lead me into the seedy alleys of 1950's Denver. Nor would I have sat with the inimitable Kurt Vonnegut reiterating the phrase "so it goes".
Now is the time to end this inspired lunacy. I unashamedly pronounce my self over-read and under-apologetic. Sweet dreams my friends, and just remember, whatever mood may strike, just look in my purse, there is bound to be an adventure waiting for you.