Reading Rituals
London is having one of those days that make you wonder whether the sun ever bothered to come above the horizon at all--the clouds have been so dense and the rain so constant that the entire day has looked like early evening. I am having one of those days when I wonder whether it's worth it even to try writing, since clearly what is called for is for me to curl up in front of the fireplace, put on some Christmas music, and get started on one of the books I re-read every year at this time.I started my holiday reading last week, with Terry Pratchett's Hogfather last week. Hogswatch is the Discworld take on Christmas, but the baby-in-a-manger part is left out: this is the solstice holiday of holly and evergreens and burning logs and the why you don't want to be the peasant who finds the bean and gets to be king for a day. I've been in a very Hogwatchly mood of late. I've always appreciated the pagan side of Christmas intellectually--for years now, my answer to "Jesus is the Reason for the Season" has been, "learn your history"--but living in Northern Europe has given me a whole new understanding of the need for a midwinter holiday built around music and games and feasting and, above all, artificial light.
Of course, in amongst all of this revelry we have a season for taking care of people who are not so lucky as to have warm firesides and feasts. I read Little Women when I was about eight, then forgot about it until grad school. Now I re-read it every fall. I know all the usual charges about it--"those girls are so saintly it makes me sick!" "How could Jo give up her career for a man!"--and I will fight you to the death on any of them. But I have to admit, I had that same "saintliness" reaction when I started reading it as an adult. I had to take a deep breath and pay attention to the fact that the girls were very rarely cheerful givers. Each girl ends up happy at having done the right thing, but that comes later. What won me over to the book, and keeps me coming back to it, is the grumbling the girls do before they accept that their world will be a better place if they do the hard--but right--thing.
I should have figured out by now that it's not long enough, but every year I bring my teeny-tiny copy of Dickens' A Christmas Carol on the plane or car to my parents' or in-laws' house. Until a couple of years ago, this was the only Dickens I had ever read. Every time I crack open the actual book I appreciate all over again Dickens' skill at choosing exactly the right words to tell his story. Just the fact that he starts his story by wondering aloud why a doornail should be considered more dead than a coffin-nail--when he goes on to say, later, "I am standing in the spirit at your elbow," how can you not believe him?This, believe it or not, is the short list. (I read really, really fast.) The last couple of years I have also made it a point to read Lisa Graff's The Thing About Georgie, in which Lisa captures all of my favorite things about Christmas Eve by taking them away from her main character, and the Christmas Dance scene of Caroline's Isabelle’s Boyfriend has definitely earned a spot in the rotation. Also, this year a random connection on Amazon brought a special treat: Let It Snow, a collection of holiday romances by John Green, Lauren Myracle, and Maureen Johnson. That one has been sitting on my shelf since October, letting me bask in anticipation until I can't take it anymore.
I am a word person, and the older I get the more I recognize how deeply I have woven other people's words and stories into my own life. Even better, unlike the circumstances of my own life, the words in these stories don't change: I might be living in London, my parents might have left the Midwest, I might not be the star soprano at Christmas Eve anymore, but Marley will always be dead as a doornail and Jo will always cut off her hair, and that is good to know.
--Kathryne
































