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inspiration

  • InBooks

    An inspiring book

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    I believe that reading a book has it’s time. A specific pocket of time. The right time. I believe that all of us read books at certain moments in our lives in which we find ourselves relating above all, to the story and/or character. In high school I read Shakespeare and was captivated by Othello. Shakespeare for me was the new adventure and I was enthralled with the language. Art. Doth. Thither. It was how I wanted to speak. (I even wrote several poems emulating Shakespearean language. I was obsessed.) However, I could not read Shakespeare now. In my 20’s, I fell in love with the Twilight Saga, Eat. Pray. Love, and The Bell Jar. I immersed myself in Meyer’s books, where I many times wished and believed I could be a werewolf. I was completely bewitched. Gilbert’s book was poignant, which summed up my life up until then. Reading her words was like seeing myself in a mirror, only this time, there were no smudges. Her story made me confront my fears, my broken dreams, my severed heart, and seek a new venture. And yet again, I realize that I could also not read that book now. I’m no longer at that point of my life. I have moved on. Plath’s story conferred that I was Esther’s analogue and utterly depressed. I lived her life; waking up everyday, going to work, surrounding myself by those who love me, but feeling numb inside. Feeling disconnected from everyone, everything, and as a result the world itself. My mother could not get past the first couple of pages of Catcher In The Rye. She said it was like reading a story from a 6th grader. (And there is absolutely nothing wrong with reading a story from a child! This is coming from someone who has read most of the Diary Of A Wimpy Kid series) She could not embrace the colloquial language. We’re talking here about an American classic and one of my favorite books of all time. The thing is, it wasn’t her time. Her time to read that book had passed.  Read more

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