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(Note: This writing is in response to Erik Hare’s blog at AD on Dec. 26, 2007, titled ‘Why Do They Read?’ Hope you will enjoy it.)

First of all, my mother was an incurable reader. There was always, ALWAYS, a book, magazine or newspaper lying around that she was in the middle of.  I was very close to my mother and loved her very much, so, it was natural to wonder what the great mysteries were behind those book and magazine covers. Also, if you’ve been around children much, you’ll know that practically every child loves books beginning at the age of one or two years old, usually, and continuing until… (it varies here). I guess I stayed a book-loving child.

A friend once said that TV’s Mr. Rogers literally ‘saved’ her life when she was a neglected, troubled child. Well, books saved my life. I needed a place to go. I needed to be out of the way many times. I needed more role models. I needed some adventure. Books and movies are able, better than any other media, to supply these needs and others.  

What could surpass the enjoyment of reading Treasure Island or the Hardy Boys series? All those ghost stories in printed collections when I was young were devoured as well. The name Scholastic books was a treasure same as gold. Even today I remember ‘East of the Sun and West of the Moon’. I remember its illustrations intrigued me. Remember the Illustrated Classics and the hundreds of other comic books with glorious heroes? Who didn’t enjoy some of those?

Then beautifully illustrated and simply-told Bible stories were discovered. Their characters stay in your mind forever.    

Later came ‘big’ books, prohibited books, books thick as hell, books by regional authors like Flannery O’Connor, Carson McCullers, William Faulkner, Eudora Welty and Margaret Mitchell. Then came required books like Catcher in the Rye or Silas Marner or David Copperfield and their respective torture. I read books like Gone with the Wind and Trinity over three days max and missed a lot of sleep. The joy when finishing them was unspeakable. Who was not moved by To Kill a Mockingbird and did not learn forever to hate racial prejudice? I relished trashy treasures such as Hurry Sundown and Peyton Place. “A lot of people like trash,” said Grace M., the author of Peyton Place. I also liked Faye Dunaway and Lana Turner, who played in the respective movies.

I’ll never forget discovering Thomas a Kempis’ Imitation of Christ. Didn’t the great Agatha Christie keep it on her night table so many years?

Today I still read. I read to learn and to be entertained. Who hasn’t been entertained by a great Ken Follett or John Grisham story? Ann Rule teaches me true police procedures and true modus operandi of some of our nation’s most hideous criminals. She does her job thoroughly. Who hasn’t been touched and made to smile by those precious stories left behind by the famous English vet James Herriot? I couldn’t get through Christopher Reeve’s sad book Still Me without shedding tears. The tears were not only for Reeve’s hellish life post-accident, but tears for all of us—for all of the weak body of humanity that we are.

These titles are only a few that I’ve come across in my life. There have been far too many to name. The reading pleasure has also been far too real. So many gems. So many revered authors.

Gosh, I owe my mom so much. But not only her, I owe so much to publishing in our America, to freedom of the press, to wise, hard-working editors, to helpful and friendly librarians, to the respect our country demonstrates as regards its children’s books, and on and on. How rich we readers are still.