Momowords

The first time you read a book
Is not something you can experience twice.
Abstract ideas take a concrete look
As words are scribbled down, all becomes concise.
The end of a story must not be mourned;
Its very beginning is a celebration!
The excitement should be remembered;
Rush of anticipation,
As your eyes travel across the text,
Drawing up endless alternatives.
What will happen next?
Is that not what life symbolises?
We must celebrate our unawareness of the future
Ignorant of what the next chapter will carry.
Re-reading your favourite book is similar
To looking at an old photograph from your history;
A book is a life – constant thrall.
Books shall always be man’s dearest friend,
For are we not all
Stories in the end?

I find it rather ironic that Jay Gatsby has the ability to read people perfectly, yet the notion of opening a book and then going on to read it is seemingly preposterous to him. What ever did we do to make him so distant?
My cousin The Picture of Dorian Gray on the shelf below me doesn’t think we are to blame, and I would tend to agree with him. I don’t think Jay dislikes reading, I just don’t think he enjoys it either. He has so many other things to do in his busy billionaire life. None of which involve picking me off a shelf, of course.
He often walks into the library and just stands in the middle of the room, as though he were admiring his impressive collection. Yet when I look into his eyes, all I am able to detect is a vague emptiness. It has occurred, occasionally, that he take one of us in his hands and look at the cover, perhaps even daring to open the front page and skim over the first few words before tiring his eyes. I’ve never had the honour. Sometimes, I wonder if he is purposefully ignoring me. I think, though, that I might feel insulted if he made the effort of picking me up but didn’t bother carrying on to actually read me.
I remember once, not so long ago in fact, a drunk owl-eyed man from one of Jay’s parties stumbled into this very library. I’m rather proud to say he took quite a liking to me. Not only that, but he gently tipped me backwards to get a better look at my spine, and slid me out of my place. The touch of human hands on my cover, and the sound of my pages carefully being turned, one by one. Seeing things from a new angle was quite disconcerting in and of itself. I felt dazed when the owl-eyed man gently put me back in my spot. I distinctly remember hearing the owl-eyed man mentioning something about my cousins and I being “real books, with pages and everything”, a look of awe written across his face. I think he was expecting fake cardboard books.
Jay wants people to believe he is a well-educated Oxford man, but we all know he only spent four months there after the war. A handful of my cousins were brought here from Oxford, but he never read them. I get the impression he brought them here as a reminder to himself that he did, in fact, partially attend Oxford University. To convince others, one must first convince oneself.
What I love about being one of Jay’s books is that I get to hear so many different opinions regarding such an infinitely wide range of subjects varying from religion to unicorns. Another thing I love about belonging to him is the amount of things I hear from other humans who wander in here, trying to act ‘intellectual’ when they’re really too drunk off their own ego to notice our open ears, devouring every word they utter. They manage to come up with the most absurd rumours you could imagine about how Jay became who he is. However the facts remain unexamined, quite like my cousins and I.
I think it a tragedy that a mind as intricate as his be wasted on the wild imaginings of a man in love with impossibility. What has love ever done for humanity? It has caused wars, deaths, grief… Don’t tell The History of Tom Jones, A Foundling that. He’ll simply say love is what we owe our existence to.
I suppose I rather like my owner, however hypocritical he may be. Although in his defence, he is ‘in love’, as The History of Tom Jones, A Foundling would phrase it, and I wouldn’t be here if he weren’t.
Why would Jay Gatsby feel the need to own a book entitled Out Of Love if not to remind him love isn’t an amount like his money, but an emotion who’s persistence keeps one going?

Books have always been an important part of my life. I learnt how to read before going to school, and even then I was an avid reader. The pile of books in my room grew rapidly, but I kept them tidy and well organised so that I could find the one I wanted easily. Perhaps that is why I am constantly rearranging things around the house to be in a more orderly fashion.

Books really have always been a way to escape reality. I can simply open a book and all of my worries will float away for a while. And even as I close the book, the story shadows my thoughts and dreams, easing my way through life. It’s rather strange how these little black swirls and dots on a page can change one’s life. When authors write a book, they are giving their opinion on a subject. And when you read a lot of books, you discover all these different points of view; giving me a new perspective on things and helping me forge my own outlook on life today.

A couple of years ago, I met Nicky Singer, author of Feather Boy, with whom I exchanged ideas in a writing workshop. Actually talking with the person who wrote this book was an amazing experience and reinforced my wish to continue writing.

I create many alternative universes which is probably what motivated me to start a website, where I publish some of my writings. I have met people around me who like the same books as I do, and have made interesting friends who recommend even more books.

When you read many books, you do not simply have a better literary culture, but you also learn many random facts. For instance thanks to the Hunger Games (Collins), I know now that mockingbirds mimic the sounds of other birds and insects. Percy Jackson (Riordan) taught me about Greek and Roman mythology, Dracula (Stoker) confirmed my suspicions that vampires do not glitter in the sunlight, as they do according to Twilight (Meyer), and Divergent (Roth) reminded me of five important words that define us as human beings (amity, abnegation, dauntless, erudite and candor). The Book Thief (Zusak) showed me that there are two sides to everything, the Perks of Being a Wallflower (Chbosky) gave me hope, Looking for Alaska (Green) told me that some things are best left unknown and the Count of Monte Cristo (Dumas) made me understand that life is not a fairy tale.

All of these characters have such different lives, such different personalities. When I am in a difficult position, I ask myself what my favourite character would do in this particular situation. When I meet someone, I subconsciously compare them to a character from a story. Now whether or not that is a good thing, I couldn’t tell you, but it certainly is a part of who I am.

I have always relied on books to help me on this thrilling journey we call life. All of these stories have such a great influence on me and the decisions I make. Books truly define who I am today.

Le doux bruit constant de pages qui tournent dans un livre,
Nos yeux absorbés par l’histoire et ses conflits,
Les rêves des personnages que nous voulons poursuivre;
Voici ce qu’est un livre qui raconte un récit.

Comme c’est étrange, le livre a un pouvoir ultime;
Il est tout-puissant, il contrôle nos émotions,
De la volonté de l’auteur nous sommes victimes
Notre vie à jamais changée par ses créations.

En lisant tard le soir, on devient plus sensibles;
Leurs pensées resonnent dans notre esprit tel des cloches.
Nous connaissons leurs propos les plus horribles,
Leurs rêves les plus beaux – des personnages nous sommes proches.

De leurs joies nous rions, leurs tristesses nous pleurons.
C’est dans notre monde qu’est plus crucial le roman
Que l’univers réel dans lequel nous vivons;
Ce sont les histoires qui rendent ces siècles plus vivants.