Book Girl

by Sarah Clarkson

  The first thing I’ve found helpful is simply not to fret and to realize that my yen to read will return as mind and body restore some balance. Part of that restoration, though, might mean creating some mental space. Here are a few of the ways I have learned to ease myself back into a reading rhythm:

  I start with art or picture books. Books like Miss Rumphius aren’t just for children! The practice of savoring the illustrations in a children’s classic or paging through a collection of art is strangely restorative for me, especially in helping me to focus. I think it has something to do with refreshing my imagination, feeding it with beauty so that it comes back to a strengthened interest in life and words.

  I make the choice to step back from social media. It’s a small discipline, but I find that the buzz of a busy brain, overloaded with bits of information, is a real detriment to reading. Mental space is one of the first things I need in order to be a reader, something I find I have to choose again and again as I make reading one of the defining rhythms of my life. It’s not about legalism or never checking Facebook—it’s about knowing what I value and creating the space for it to flourish anew.

  I read what I love. I go back to the beginning. If one more Cadfael murder mystery [2] is the only thing I can manage, or yet one more immersion in Anne of Green Gables, then that is where I begin.

  I read magazines. Whether an essay about walking in the lovely Taproot magazine (http://taprootmag.com) or an article about travel or writing in an old issue of Victoria (I collect the older ones for their excellent articles) or a poem in Ruminate (http://ruminatemagazine.com), a literary magazine of faith and art, the shorter content accompanied often by photos or art offers a bite-size way for me to ease back into reading.

  Read Mindfully

  Never tell a book girl that her books are worthless. It seems a fairly obvious point, but to the young editor invading my mom’s library one summer morning, the only thing that was obvious to him was the assumption that physical books were outdated, useless, old fashioned. “All of this,” he claimed, gesturing to the old oak shelves groaning with the countless picture books and novels that formed my childhood, “will be gone in another few years. We can read so much more quickly now on a screen.” My mother was rendered speechless. I’m afraid I wouldn’t have been.

  My problem with the overconfident and ultramodern assessment of this editor is not with the idea of e-readers as a viable form of reading or with the expanding world of alternate ways of reading, whether by audiobook, e-reader, or some new technology of which I have not dreamed. I just love my books—the creased paper my fingers have touched since childhood, the musty smell, the memory of a quote on a certain side of the page. I don’t think physical books will go out of style, because we are embodied beings who need to touch and feel, smell and see reality in tangible ways. Books are more than ideas bound to black type; they are also gifts, companions, physical presences that walk with us through certain seasons of our lives. I’m not too worried about their continued existence.

  That said, I heartily endorse the use of an e-reader if it makes reading accessible and doable. I know that my sister, a doctoral student, has found hers invaluable since the mound of reading she would have to lug around would be impossible without it. I have learned to enjoy my e-reader on the rare occasion I don’t want to pile my suitcase with books. And when it comes to audiobooks, I am a long-term lover; I grew up listening to book-on-tape classics during back-road drives through the Texas Hill Country and the Rocky Mountains. I love the fact that I can walk to the grocery store in Oxford and catch fifteen minutes of a story on my headphones.

  My only concern with the use of technology for reading is simply that the fragmentary nature of online reading—the skim from headline to blog to article to Instagram—not replace the habit of quiet, sustained reading, the kind that immerses you in the mind and ideas of another, giving you space to consider, ponder, and discern.

  Read with Attention

  When I was seventeen, I was introduced to the remarkable Dr. Joe Wheeler, a writer, anthologist, and professor of literature who mentored me through a course of literary reading that lasted over a year and established a certain way of reading that has shaped me all the way to my studies in Oxford. In one of the first letters he sent (a handwritten wonder) outlining our course and instructing me in certain habits of attention, he directed me to do something I’d simply never done before: mark up my books with abandon. Have a conversation with them, he said. Underline, argue, notate. I was hesitant at first; I’d always kept my books clean and tight. But as I began to follow his directions, I realized that as I interacted with those books, jotting my objections or my praise and underlining passages I loved, the content became much more my own, the ideas vivid in my mind long after I closed them.

  Reading retention—the capacity to remember, recall, and articulate what we have read—is something that is often a focus in childhood education. But I think it is equally vital for adults. The capacity to remember the words and ideas we read equals our capacity to be shaped, instructed, and guided by them. Studies suggest that the brain retains very little of what is simply read but is instantly able to recall more of what has been underlined, notated, or interacted with in any way. It’s why Scripture is crammed with directives for believers to repeat, memorize, and meditate upon God’s Word. Eugene Peterson says we must “metabolize” Scripture, partaking of it daily in such a way that it becomes assimilated into bone, soul, blood, and spirit.[3] It’s the same with anything we read. If we want to retain the beauty of J. R. R. Tolkien, the wry wisdom of Wendell Berry, or the wonder of Gerard Manley Hopkins, we have to read so that our reading is a conversation, an interaction, the reception of a gift. Consider these ideas for reading with attention:

  Mark it up! I’m with Dr. Wheeler now. Get a pencil (if you feel a bit squeamish about marking those clean white pages) or go whole hog with a pen, but get yourself in the habit of conversing with the books you want to remember. Underline favorite quotes; jot objections or praise.

  Keep a quote book or box. On my first trip to Europe as a teen, I spent a bit of my long-hoarded savings on an intricately carved wooden box bought in a historic market in Poland. From the moment I bought it, I knew what it would be: my quote box. I began to copy down favorite quotes from books, snippets of poems, and theological reflections on scraps of paper. I have hundreds now, and that box is a treasure chest of the wisdom or whimsy I want most to remember.

  Keep a reading journal. One of my mother’s requirements of me when I was a child was that I narrate to her what I had read each day. I had to retell, in my own words, the plot of a novel or the pith of a historical event. That practice enabled me to make the information my own. It’s exactly what I now do in keeping notes on the books I read—summing up their content in my own words, listing the points I want to remember, the sections to which I want to return.

  Memorize the bits you particularly love. The words you memorize become part of you, giving shape and direction to your thoughts. They become integral to your view of the world. I’ve memorized Scripture, poetry, and passages from my favorite books, and I only wish I could manage more. I’ve recited psalms to myself in the small hours of a dark night, jotted a novelish quote for a friend, and had poetry at my fingertips when the beauty of a landscape demanded more than normal expression.

  Read How to Read a Book: The Classic Guide to Intelligent Reading by Mortimer J. Adler and Charles Van Doren. This classic, inspirational, and highly detailed guide to careful, attentive reading offers insight into what it means not just to read but to become an insightful reader, marked by “a mind made free by discipline.”

  Read in Fellowship

  We call it STS, our Surprise Theology Society, which simply means that every week, in our little Oxford home, a group of friends and comrades gathers to discuss one person’s favorite bit of current reading. The person who chooses the “surprise” brings copies for all, and we take turns reading aloud. It has becom
e one of our favorite events of the week. The discussions, the insights, the exposure to ideas we might never have come across otherwise have become both a challenge and a delight. The sharing of what excites or troubles each of us in our reading has doubled the impact of the chosen words as we see them through the eyes of our friends, through the lenses of different histories and backgrounds. To read in company has broadened us as individuals and bound us together in friendship.

  There is nothing like companionship in the reading journey, people with whom to share the delight or puzzlement or challenge of new bookish horizons. As you walk the reading adventure, consider these possibilities as ways to weave fellowship into the rhythm of your reading:

  Start a book group. Choose a novel, invite a few friends (and if you’re me, brew some tea too), and set a regular time to meet and discuss what you are discovering. One way to do this is to meet once a month to discuss a whole novel (read in the previous month by all group members). This is a delightful way to immerse yourself in a story as a whole, and it allows you to evaluate plot, character development, and themes from a big-picture point of view. I’ve been part of a film and novel group in Oxford that meets every eight weeks to do just this, and I’m amazed by the ground we cover in a couple of hours. You could also meet weekly to discuss one or two chapters in a book—a rhythm I have loved, as it allows for more time to savor and mine each section of the book for its meaning and imagery. In the group I was part of, we assigned a different person to lead the discussion each week, a practice that enabled us to not only share the responsibility but also to get to know each other better. When it comes to selecting a novel, I find that it helps to choose two or three options for a group vote, lest the plethora of choices delay the actual reading.

  Start a read-aloud poetry group. I’ve taken part in one of these groups for the past three years at my theological college in Oxford, and I have been astonished at how quickly it has created friendships and how nourishing it has been to my studies and my heart. Assign one person each week to bring two to three poems to read, with a few prepared questions ready to spark discussion. No other prep is needed.

  Start a book blog. It doesn’t have to be fancy—just set up an online platform where you can invite close friends to join in discussing or commenting on what you are reading. My first foray into the blogging world was as a teenager, when I was prompted by my brothers and a few friends to start posting about what I read and loved. I continue to do this on my own blog, and many of the reflections you’ll find in this book began with a few paragraphs online as I sought to metabolize what I’d read. It was in crafting the short reviews, book lists, and reflections on what I’d read for my blog that I began to imagine a longer book—the one you now hold in your hands.

  Consider a local or online course in literature. If you want to delve deeper into an aspect of literature with some expert or classroom help, do a little research into college or university courses in your area. Or take a look at online resources like The Great Courses (http://thegreatcourses.com), audio and visual lectures recorded by active college professors, or iTunes U, which offers a collection of recorded, and usually free, university lectures on various subjects.

  Years ago, during a browse through a secondhand bookshop, I stumbled across a memoir by the famed author of Western adventures, Louis L’Amour. I must admit that I still haven’t read one of his novels (they’re on my “someday” list), but I did sit straight down in that shop to explore L’Amour’s fascinating account of the way regular, disciplined reading made him the writer and adventurer for which he is now famous. He put it this way, and I’ve thought of this quote countless times since: “I have read my books by many lights, hoarding their beauty, their wit or wisdom against the dark days when I would have no book, nor a place to read. I have known hunger of the belly kind many times over, but I have known a worse hunger: the need to know and to learn.”[4] In all those afternoons of my childhood when my mom told me it was time, yet again, for an hour of reading, or when I was cuddled into bed to read one last story at night, I had little idea of how I was being equipped to sate that elemental, holy hunger to learn. I know it now, and I hope that in my passing along the tips and rhythms in this chapter you, too, will find yourself equipped to discover and live by the “hoarded beauty” of great books. May the reading life become a feast for your mind and soul.

  [1] “Reading ‘Can Help Reduce Stress,’” Telegraph, March 30, 2009, http://www.telegraph.co.uk/news/health/news/5070874/Reading-can-help-reduce-stress.html.

  [2] Ellis Peters, The Chronicles of Brother Cadfael.

  [3] Eugene Peterson, Eat This Book: A Conversation in the Art of Spiritual Reading (Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans, 2006).

  [4] Louis L’Amour, Education of a Wandering Man (New York: Bantam Books, 1990), 93–94.

  Chapter 3Books Can Broaden YOUR WORLD

  Expanding Your Mind, One Title at a Time

  A book, too, can be a star, . . . a living fire to lighten the darkness, leading out into the expanding universe.

  MADELEINE L’ENGLE

  I WAS TWO, maybe three, and the world around me looked like a vast impressionist painting—vivid strokes of fascinating color and unexplored shadow, all of it waiting for my exploration. For the moment, I was curled in the crook of my mother’s arm as she held a book open before me, reading for the hundredth time the tale of two bears and their alphabetic escapades through an old, mysterious house. I reached out, touching the pages, losing myself in her narration, my imagination stretching toward the images and the secret nooks of that house.

  I loved that book because of the world it created in my imagination, one of hidden doors and cupboards hiding surprise pots of jam or storybooks or secret passageways that led to glimpses of starlight. The book was a world unto itself, one I inhabited every time my mother opened the pages again. When she stopped for a breath and the turn of a page, I glanced up at the nearby bookshelf and stared at the toppled stacks of children’s books. As I did, I had a toddler epiphany in the simple realization that every book there contained a world as distinct and dear as that of my bears. Though I could not yet put it into words, I was suddenly quick and curious with the knowledge that each of those little books was a doorway into a new realm of imaginative possibility. And all were waiting for my exploration.

  In that moment, I understood a truth that would shape the whole of my life: a girl who reads is a girl who learns.

  A woman who reads is a woman who taps into the fundamental reality that she was created to learn, made to question, primed to grow by her interaction with words. A book girl is one who has grasped the wondrous fact that she has a mind of her own, a gift from her Creator, meant to be filled and stretched, challenged and satisfied by learning for all the days of her life. A woman who reads is one who takes ownership of herself, aware that words give her the holy power to seek, to grow, to question, and to discern. She knows that to read is to begin an adventure of self-formation in partnership with the Holy Spirit that will shape the choices she makes, the dreams she bears, the legacy she leaves in the great tale of the world.

  This was the bone-deep sense of self that came to me through a childhood crammed with good books, but it’s one that has been restored to me time and again by the books that have broadened and shaped me as an adult, kindling me back to life in seasons of deep self-doubt or confusion. I am often startled to realize how easy it was to lose that confidence in myself as a learner as I grew into adulthood. A lot of it had to do with the fact that I was a restless, sensitive idealist who took most of my twenties to figure out where I belonged in the world (a work that’s undoubtedly still ongoing). Part of it had to do with what I think is a modern idea that influences us in the contemporary world—of learning as something specialized, of education as something relegated to college courses or official groups, a practice that separates the ordinary person from the student or the professional. Since for many years I was neither of these and couldn’t figure out where I fit in
the scheme of things, I often felt inadequate, unrecognized, and ill equipped to take my own story in my hands. But the identity of a book girl, the vocation to be a learner, isn’t something that’s earned.

  To be a book girl is a gift, the birthright of every woman, and this is something I remembered at a particularly difficult point in my twenties, something set in my hands afresh through a biography I listened to. I was twenty-eight, unsure of what to do with my life, with a book project fallen through, a college application denied, and the words of a recent rejection letter from an editor ringing in my ears. I wondered if I should give up my writing goals and my studies and just take a desk job. Since all my plans for the autumn had imploded, I decided to take a road trip. In retrospect, I think I needed some space for catharsis. I packed the tiny blue hatchback I’d named Gypsy and set off early on a frosty morning. I had no real aim other than a couple of weeks of escape, the quiet of the car, and a few visits with old friends.

  But being me, I made sure I had an audiobook for entertainment—a random biography I’d plucked from the public library shelves about four writers whose work I’d enjoyed in bits and pieces. As I drove the long miles through the hills of Virginia and North Carolina, all crimson and dappled with autumn fire, I listened to the story of how Thomas Merton, Flannery O’Connor, Walker Percy, and Dorothy Day became the writers we know so well today. And as I listened, my own heart came awake.

  I recently looked back at my journals from that time and was amused to realize that only two days into my listening and driving, I wrote passionately that my spirit (in the words of Robert Louis Stevenson) had been stabbed “broad awake”[1] by listening to the author’s insightful account of the young Thomas Merton and Flannery O’Connor.