On Big Books
I am terrified of big books. About
325 pages is all I can handle. Any more than that (unless the cover is
particularly inviting), I feel the clouds of panic closing in. It starts in my
throat and makes its way downward until I have to remind myself to participate
in the basic function of breathing, just so I don’t lose consciousness.
Though my
terror of big books has been around for ages, I have found certain books worth
risking the onset of panic. For example, I read Victor Hugo’s unabridged Les Miserablés, weighing in about 1,500
pages. This reading was a pilgrimage to pay homage to the musical production of
the story. At that time, I’d seen the show 3 times and the 2 movie versions
that were available for viewing more times than I could count. I felt I was
doing my ardor for the production a disservice by not having read the original
novel, so I set forth on this journey with gusto, my love of the story casting
out all fear of its length.
Then there
was the time I read Anna Karenina
with a group of friends. The copy of the book I owned had the most beautifully
designed cover. I also was reading another book where the heroine was reading Anna Karenina. I deeply admired this
heroin and thought, “If she can do it, so can I.” I also had the added
competition of a deadline and friends who were seeking to meet the deadline at
the same speed. It just so happened that I was the only one who finished it by
the time we set to meet and discuss. If I’d known this would happen, I might
not have been so ambitious.
Then there
is the Bible. I first read this at the age of 14. My purpose in doing so was
out of guilt. If I could read so many other books but had never read the Bible,
what sort of Christian was I? I also read this because we were reading it as a
family and, once again, competition set in and I was determined to read it
faster than the others.
Once I’d
completed the Bible, I decided not to lose the momentum and read it through 3
more times in as many years. It’s not so bad once you do it.
And
finally, the most recent big book I tackled was Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows. Once I began the series, I
had to finish. But I must admit, the size of this book induced panic that
neither the Bible, Anna Karenina, nor
Les Miserablés, had conjured. For
months it sat on my shelf, until finally I called myself a “big chicken” and
took it up with determination. After all, hundreds of teenagers were reading
this book over and over again, there was no reason it should frighten me.
It took me
a month to get through it, but that was a personal record for big books. I am
now on my 3rd reading of the Harry Potter Series.
Upon
reflection, I do not regret one moment of conquering the fear and reading these
books. But I could not have done it alone. The motivation of love, the
companionship of others (both real and fictional) and the aesthetic pleasure of
holding a beautifully bound cover in my hands while I read were among the powerful
forces that overcame the panic that typically set in.
And upon
further reflection, are these not means to overcoming any fear? Even the most unexplainable?