I like most of the books I read.
No, actually, that’s not 100 % true. Looking at the evidence of my Read-shelf on Goodreads (and, well, knowing myself), I don’t just simply like these lovely things I choose to place before my eyes for hours. I REALLY like them.
The thing is, though…..a part of me want to LOVE them. All of them.
Sure, these REALLY like-books always manage to make me feel happy, and in some ways you could say I love them for constantly being there, easy to find and a pleasure to get through, but I don’t LOVE them. They don’t give me THAT feeling.
When I LOVE a book, I will stay up all night to read it, and it won’t even matter that I’m crazy tired the next day, because I’ll know that that book was all worth it.
When I LOVE a book, I feel everything so much that it hurts, but it’s a glorious kind of hurt that I don’t quite know how to handle or deal with, but it’s all okay.
When I LOVE a book, it makes me laugh, but also cry, and it doesn’t even have to be a sad kind of cry. If you ever see me shed happy tears over a book, it’s pretty safe to assume I’ve already fallen in LOVE with it.
When I LOVE a book, it not only makes me feel happy, but sort of lost, empty, and full — all at the same time. You know, when you just sit frozen, staring at the wall because you can’t grasp the fact that you won’t ever get even a single beautiful sentence more.
I want this.
I need this.
I crave this.
(I think I may have a bit of an addiction)
But Beatrice, why would this be a problem?
The problem is that when I have gone through all the things mentioned above — all the giddy smiles, the heartache, that glorious happy sadness — I start looking for the next book to fall in LOVE with, and, in my opinion, they’re not that easy to come by (plus, they end way too quickly). Basically, I have started to find myself turning away from books after reading only one or two chapters, simply because I didn’t immediately LOVE them, and if it can’t compare to the book I read before, then what’s the point? I pretty much end up in a weird book hangover depression-thing, that is pretty hard to get out of. It has been the cause of several of my reading slumps, in particular these past two years, and I don’t want it to be.
I don’t want to ask for so much all the time, and I don’t want it to affect my reading in a negative way. A book doesn’t have to change my life forever, or even stay in my mind after I’m done, to be great. I don’t know, I’m currently in that state of post-amazing depression (Aristotle and Dante Discover the Secrets of the Universe), so maybe none of this makes any sense.
Does it make sense to you, or am I the only one who has this problem/feel this way? Probably not. Anyway, tell me your thoughts down in the comments, and if you have a particular book you LOVE, please help me feed my addiction.
Pst, if you want, I can hook you up with some great stuff ;). It’s okay, you can thank me later.