Reading...So I am having insomnia at the moment. 3am insomnia.
I am not sure it isn't linked with reading, and particularly the book I am reading (which, to be frank, is nothing special, but which is compelling enough to keep me turning the pages and (possibly partially at least) driving sleep away).
In a multi-tasky kind of a way, I was thinking about reading. I had not read properly for so long, but now I seem to go nowhere without a book. There is something about immersing yourself in another world, even if that world is one of non-fiction, but unfamiliar non-fiction, which allows you to lose yourself and to live a different life. I had forgotten the pleasure of that until recently. I had forgotten that sometimes I need to go and be elsewhere, where someone else will solve the problems, and resolve everything for me. Where all I need to do is to sit, or lie, or wallow, and read and read and read.
When I read I completely inhabit the world of the book. Whilst I am reading, if the book has anything to it (and even bad books sometimes have this quality) I can not be me. I can be the person looking in on the world in which the book is set, and be away from myself, and my thoughts, and my actions. I can not think. I had forgotten. I am glad I remembered.
And sometimes a book you read throws light on those problems, and, even whilst I am inhabiting that world, I am (not literally) open mouthed with fear/delight/joy/terror at the parallels I am able to draw, and the illumination it has cast on the world outside. The world I would be in were it not for the book world. And, again, that isn't just with "good" books; it can be with pretty trashy books as well.
I had also forgotten that I quite like writing. Although anyone looking back at the triteness of early posts here would be forgiven for thinking that I never wrote anyway. But I am remembering that there was a time when I wanted to write. When I believed the (almost certainly) myth that everyone has a novel in them. I think it came before the time when I wrote (almost certainly) extremely bad poetry.
But I don't think I've ever written like this before; not particularly caring who, if anyone, reads it. Well, actually I think I did earlier, but I edited much, much more then (well, again, you can tell that by the trite and length (lack of it) of the posts). There are things which I would never write here, because someone might read them, but things that I can refer to obliquely so that I will know what they mean, even if I am pretty sure that no-one else will get the significance. And more, I suppose, that I am happy to share with anyone who happens to be passing by. But it seems to be enough that I want to write things down for me, so that I won't forget them (now that I am old and raddled, ofc (please to read with sense of irony)).
And on the subject of books, on a more mundane note, I went shopping today. I had an M&S voucher and a Waterstones voucher. I thought best to knock off the M&S one first; and 10 minutes had that done. After that, Waterstones (and I so must spend a few hours in the Piccadilly one soon, if only the conquer my fear of its vastness). Oh the joy of having money to spend, and unlimited books to buy (well, I say that. Obviously not the ones I have already bought, or the frankly really bad ones. Or the Bible, or a dictionary. I could go on. You get the point....). So I had an orange yoghurt moment, and went to the popular science section. Two books down. And then the sci fi/fantasy section, which yielded another 4 books. I used to read an amount of fantasy back in the days when I read thick books (although I have read Don Quixote, I'll have you know), and it's a bit of a joy to come back to it. And I am thinking of going back to the 100 Best Loved Books. But to do that I will have to read War and Peace. Perhaps in September then...
But it's 3.15 in the morning now. I should go back to bed either to sleep or finish the book I started earlier...
