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July 5, 2009 - Meg Alexander
From time to time in my life, I morph into what some people might call a bookworm. As a child, I would stay up 'til the wee hours of the morning, reading under my covers with a flashlight. Jane Eyre, Tommyknockers, Gone with the Wind? The bigger the better. I wanted the biggest books I could get my little hands on, and devoured them as quickly as possible and then bragged to anyone who cared. And in elementary school, no one cared. I got in trouble for reading during class. I begged to stay in from recess if I was close to finishing a book ... or a chapter ... or a paragraph. I lied to my friends when they called and asked me to play — "my mom says no!" — as I feverishly read through the Chronicles of Narnia for the fifth or sixth or seventh time.
I was a book snob, looking down my little bookish nose as my classmates and their little children's books. Dr. Suess, Roald Dahl, Jerry Spinelli (now some of my favorites!) were for babies, but not for me, I was on to even bigger and better books ... until that is, one mean little girl (my best friend) called me boring.
It was a wake-up call. I could lose myself in an imaginary world or lose out on the real world.
Still, sometimes, it's good to lose yourself for a little while. It's a nice little vacation, really. Like the past week, for instance. Checked off my mile-long list of books to read were "Good Omens: The Nice and Accurate Prophecies of Agnes Nutter, Witch" (pretty good, all in all) "Siddhartha" (amazing!) and "The Stepford Wives" (excellent). Next up??? "The Trial" by Franz Kafka is one I've always meant to finish. And if I do, I'll be sure to broadcast it. Some things never change.
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