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“There’s nothing like a good book”, said every English teacher ever. But for a stressed, sleep-deprived HSC student, some things come pretty close. Like the incredible feeling of finishing the last exam on your timetable, getting a decent sleep, or passing a math exam can feel like the best thing in the world. With a new wave of tweeting, snapping, and status-updating teenagers, learning about the importance of reading may sound like an overplayed Taylor Swift song on the car radio. I mean, what teenager could possibly spare the time to do a little extra reading? And what makes it so important?
Perhaps I don’t come across as the biggest reader. But for me, like many people I know, books have been a key in my life that I perhaps haven’t enough credit for. As a child, books were an escape and a sanctuary, and a peaceful oasis. Books transported me to places I never imagined I’d visit and exposed me to ideas I had never considered. I wish I could personally thank the magical authors of my childhood. Thank you for every smile, laugh, tear, adventure, pounding heart, and heart-wrenching ‘what’s going to happen next’ moment. I don’t know if I read because I was curious or if I was curious because I read. Probably both. I do remember, however, that Roald Dahl was my king. The sugary taste of milky, melting-in-your-mouth, chocolate lingered on my tastebuds and mind for a week after learning the wonders of a magical, distant factory. Every chocolate bar I opened for the next year was incredibly secretive and dramatic (just in case). Each page took me to crazy, new worlds of witches and talking bugs and kids stuck inside fruits. But I will say, the idea of giants (no matter how friendly) outside my window at night was always a little creepy.
For years, words entangled my mind and threw me into fantastic new worlds for hours, until my rumbling stomach and the lack of light pulled me out again. I’ve breathed the dust from crowded Nazi hideaways. I’ve ached through excruciating hiking trails and tasted the bitter ocean air from the most beautiful beaches. I’ve escaped mazes, solved murders, destroyed witches, talked to lions, and lived a thousand years.
When my teenage years got rougher, and years of caring for a sick mother had left me jaded and burned out, I turned back to books. I threw myself into fictional people’s problems. I cried with them, I sympathized with them, I laughed with them, I pitied them, and I used them. I used them to soften my own problems, the problems lurking in my house that I couldn’t repair. But the more I read, the further my perspective shifted. Without realizing it, reading had become less about escaping my world and more about understanding it. In every character, I have found the best and worst parts of the people I love. And in some, I have seen my own.
It was through reading that I came to understand hope is not a foolish concept, love is transformative, heroes and allies come in all forms, and monsters can be overcome. But most importantly, reading has taught me that my circumstances don’t have to define me. My invisible scars don’t have to hang so heavy around my shoulders, and my anger at myself for being helpless wasn’t worth the weight. My invisible chains of guilt didn’t have to hang so heavy around my shoulders.
As much as it gets repeated, reading is powerful. It is knowledge, it is empathy, and it connects people and betters them. And I know it has bettered me. Despite the impact that it has had on my life, the sad truth is that not everyone shares my opinion. In fact, many despise reading. But regardless of your stance on the topic, I’m yet to meet someone who’s never read anything useful or interesting in their life. Whether it’s Shakespeare, Harry Potter, comic books, Vogue magazine, or the timeless tales of Roald Dahl, I believe there is something out there for everyone to enjoy reading. So why not give it a try? You have nothing to lose, but everything to gain.
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