Have you read a book today?

Some people will tell you they write for their own self. That they do not care for an audience and its approval, opinion, appreciation or criticism. If there was even an ounce of truth in that, we would not have books and blogs and magazines and dailies. We would have room after room filled with personal journals resting in heaps of dust.
Shakespeare, Shelly, Keats, Frost, Austen, Dickens, The Bronte sisters, Nietzsche, Blyton, Wodehouse, Rumi, Conrad, Bernard Shaw, Miler, Eliot, O’Hara, Hemingway, Tolstoy, Tennessee, Twain, Lawrence, Coleridge, Wordsworth, Byron, Virginia Woolf and so many others would be names you haven’t heard of and their genius- things you haven’t read.
You would not be reading this post on my Blog if I decided to write for my else.

The truth remains that Every artist craves for an audience. Seeking acceptance is but human nature. So more than the “price” an art may fetch its artist, it is the admiration or recognition by masses that matters. That,perhaps, is the reason non- promotional wine tastings, art shows and exhibitions came into place. A dancer gets paid to perform but it is for an audience that takes delight in every twist of her ankle or every delicate turn of her waist that she spends days perfecting her every move before a show.

If you have ever known someone who writes, or better still are that someone yourself, you’ll know that there is a hope to be read and judged that does not extinguish…it just keeps burning higher like the flames of a wild, untamed fire.
There are the days when you write only for yourself but more often than not one writes to be read. And that is as true and real as the sun that shines every morning.

For a good twelve years I was aloof to this world of its own. And then someone gifted me a fat book in a maroon leather jacket for my thirteenth birthday. It was my least favorite gift the instant I saw it. Chocolates, Art kits and teddy bears won over that fat jacketed book.
But that changed. Almost an year later, I could not sleep one night and saw this book abandoned at the bottom drawer of my dresser. I thought of giving it a try. The best hours of my life happened. My first book. It was more exciting than a first romance. Men just can not make a woman feel all that a book can.
Unfortunately, I do not remember its name or what it was about, perhaps the fact that I have read over a thousand books since then is to blame. I would waddle in and out of the library on evenings that followed the sleepless night. I would sleep with a book under my pillow every night. There were times when I revisited books I had previously read only to unearth an entirely different dimension. The book with its characters and stories and souls and smells and spots was good as new again. A book at times can have more depth than a live person. And any amount of time spent swimming in its secrets will still leave something untouched for your next union. For a solid chunk of fibers compacted into thin sheet, a book has remarkable vicousity.

Books are treasures worth a million folds more than the tiny black digits prinited at the back of their jacket. They are treasure. Every word and letter and line in them, the riches.
Through some books I have travelled the lengths and breadths of the world and through others beyond the limits of possibility.
To be able to find yourself lost in an imagination and at times to become a part of it is the most beautiful experience there is. It is at this point that an appearance does not matter as much as a personality. It is at this point that you get entangled in a web so intricate yet woven by someone else.
You get involved. You do not buy the final product of an effort. You become a part of it. You may not know the author of the masterpiece you spent days and days and hours savouring and there is not a fat chance in the world that he will ever know you but there is something more evolved than worldly associations of acquaintance that binds you, something beyond physical presence or emotional dependance. He is your ticket to time travel and you, the audience he creates for.

Ever wanted to see a new place, meet new people and have new experiences without spending a dime?
Read a book. Or better still, write one.

Have you read a book today?

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7 thoughts on “Have you read a book today?

  1. Love the premise behind your blog, and as a poet I wish I’d have thought of your title! Thanks so much for signing on to follow my own adventures. If you’d like a good book about reading books, you might check out Michael Dirda’s “An Open Book.” I think you’ll find a kindred spirit there.

    Cheers,
    Marci

    • Thank you so much for visiting the blog, Marci.

      Let me tell you, the blog title has been a source of envy from all corners(usually because people think a darn good title has been wasted on a misconstrued work in progress) 😀

      Thanks for suggesting the book. Will give it a look first thing tomorrow.

      Hope you have the most wonderful day ahead, Marci.
      Love,
      Aakanksha.

  2. Pingback: The 7×7 Link Award: My 4th « The Poetically Incorrect.

  3. Brilliantly, beautifully put. Like your denunciation of humanity, it’s a stream of burning rhetoric, a beautiful argument. I could see you in a play getting up and denouncing someone in unanswerable terms or making a speech which cut through petty politics and left people in wonder. You should seriously consider that you’re very, very good at this kind of passionate advocacy.

    Well, it’s a long time since I read right through a book in one go: the two I remember were William Golding’s Pincher Martin and Michael Crichton’s The Andromeda Strain – that one I read when I was in Kenya and travelling back upcountry from Nairobi: I read it in bits in Nairobi and on the way back, got back home, made a cup of tea, started reading it again and couldn’t put it down on the second time till I’d finished!

    Currently I’m finishing off reading Laurence Sterne’s Tristram Shandy and Brian Aldiss’ Greybeard, while dipping bit by bit into Andrew Marvell’s collected poems.

    I agree absolutely that writers want an audience. It may be very small – a memoir for family or friends – but writing is communication, not kicking a stone on a path. When you write, you imagine an audience. Certainly writers should not be discouraged if some people don’t like their work, but who wouldn’t feel something was wrong if a hundred people didn’t like it and none liked it? Conversely, one person really and percipiently enthusiastic about what you’ve written is a fantastic boost. Your world IS shared.

    • Thank you 🙂
      You’re so kind.
      I used to do mock-parliamentary debates in school. No prizes for guessing.., I would always find myself playing devil’s advocated. In 2010, I was awarded The Best Speaker Against a Motion at The National Debate.
      You’ve planted the image of being in a play in my head now. I must consider it.

      My world is shared indeed.

      Wishes of a merry day.
      Carpe Diem

    • Thanks for stopping by to read this 🙂
      I am glad you like the blog.

      I am currently reading Anna Karenina by Leo Tolstoy. Would love to read Pico Iyer’s work…I have heard from a lot of sources that it is worth a good read. Is any of it available as an e-book? Kindle or amazon?

      Have a great day ahead.
      Carpe Diem.

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