For a long, long time . . . .

I was enraptured by books. I’d be lost in the lines and find myself in a place that even the writer couldn’t have imagined. Characters half formed creating universes in the sleepy shadows of my mind and sceneries melting into landscapes of watercolours in my eyes.

But then I started reading for sport. I’d read a page as fast as I could and test myself on its content. (Due to this I have the innate ability to see only a mere flash of a road sign and know every which direction it was pointing to, but let me not digress.)

(Back in school, I read the entirety of Lord of the rings (The Hobbit in toe) in under one week and received full marks on a quiz a good friend (Bala). I even picked up the names of sub-characters that were only restricted to a few paragraphs of text and the underlying prejudices and borderline Celtic references.)

But now it’s not quite the same. A lot different actually. I read solely for pleasure. I see a good book or I hear about a good book, and I read it. But I’m so utterly selective in my readings that coming across a truly unique book is a rare occurrence. I’m extremely judgmental about what I read, damning it to the three categories of Worthwhile, Easy, and I-should-finish-them-laters.

Whenever I see a book displayed in the window of a bookstore, I automatically assume that it is generic, available, ordinary, simple… Shit. It’s mainstream and I don’t do mainstream. This may eventually be one of my greatest downfalls as a wannabe-writer/hack/human being, but I don’t do mainstream. Sure, I’ll listen to a popular band, I’ll watch the latest block-buster, but you most definitely will not find a chick-lit or serial crime thriller on my bookshelf. The books I like are obscure, random, maybe even hard to find, possibly no longer in print; anything but mainstream.

And yeah the classic pieces of literature, cult-mainstream, and books studied at schools do not count as mainstream.

The whole idea of mainstream annoys me. Sure, there’s the chance of picking up a book that says things that no other mainstream book has touched on, that says something different compared to the endless lines of racism, sexism, terrorism, love, relationships or historically accurate characters. Maybe there’s a gem somewhere out there in the front row along with all the other colourfully decorated front covers where the name of the author is bigger than the title itself.

And it’s not just because of my self-serving, pompous attitude when I regale you with the stories of an obscure Canadian/African/Russian/Czech author, there’s a wholly deeper level to this altogether. You see, when it comes to reading books, I have a nasty habit of becoming the book. The florid writing and intriguing characters are absorbed into my mind and ebb out through my skin as the story unfolds. This is why when I read a depressing book, I feel depressed. Or when I read an anarchistic book, I want to create anarchy. Some of it passes, true, and I return to normal, but some of it stays with me and lingers in the cavity of my chest where it very well becomes a part of me.

And, as such, I don’t want some middle aged woman polluting what may very well be my soul with musings over boyfriends. I don’t want some little story that works itself out in the end with charming, happy little coincidences. I want tragedy. I want epiphanies. I want intriguing characters that develop in my mind and become me as much as I become them. I want to feel the world from under my covers. I’m too cowardly to have these feelings for myself, so I read books to grasp every nurturing drop of emotion that inflames my senses to a feeling I never knew I could experience.

So please, I beg you, if you recommend a book for God’s sake make it memorable. Otherwise there is a very good chance that I will move myself away from you for your poor taste in life.

(Also, on a completely separate note, when the hell will I write a post that goes on to say what the title does?)