A perfect reading day...

There's been a sense of calm about me today that I can't explain. I woke up well rested, wandered around my quarter a bit in the cool, misty weather, had my own teatime with a strawberry tartlette, and read a good chunk of Pat Conroy's latest book, My Reading Life.

It's not a novel, but rather a collection of short stories describing the influence of literature during his formative years, and how that love stayed with him, inspiring his writing everyday. I haven't actually done a lot of reading while I've been here in Paris, but today was the perfect day for it, so I indulged. I bought this book when he was doing a book signing on Fripp Island over the Christmas break, and had the pleasure of meeting him in person. He signed the book for me on the starting page of the chapter, aptly titled, "A Southerner in Paris."

Maybe I'm romanticizing books, or maybe it's just been so long I can't really remember when I read a book for pleasure, but it was nice to turn off the laptop, cozy up on my bed, and hold an actual book in my hands, reading solely for the purpose of reading. That this topic itself is the focus of the entire book might have something to do with why I'm writing this now. A quote:

There is no passion more rewarding than reading itself...it remains the best way to dream and to feel the sheer carnal joy of being fully and openly alive.

I've always been a bookworm, and I thank my parents for instilling in me a love of ink on bound paper. Another chapter, another quote:

Books are living things and their task lies in their vows of silence. You touch them as they quiver with a divine pleasure. You read them and they fall asleep to happy dreams for the next ten years. If you do them the favor of understanding them, of taking in their portions of grief and wisdom, then they settle down in contented residence in your heart.

On that note, I bid you adieu. May you always have a good book in hand.