And her eyes. I cannot say what color Lenore Beadsman’s eyes are; I cannot look at them; they are the sun to me.

They are blue.

– From The Broom of the System by David Foster Wallace

As I wrote about here, I have recently rediscovered not only the simple joy of reading, but the benefits that reading literature, in and of itself, bestows.
Too many people these days don’t read. I know I sound preachy or possibly nihilistic and probably old-fashioned as well, but it’s true. When people do read, I find, it’s crap: Political bullshit from one extreme expounding on why the other side is not only wrong, but stupid, morally corrupt, and probably Satanists; Chicken Soup for the soul… which despite its title does NOTHING to feed one’s inner self; Motivational Crap; Religious Crap; Sanctimonious Crap; The Five People You Meet in Heaven; etc…

I must say, begrudgingly, that at least they are reading. If we are a nation of literary anorexics, starved so dearly for any morsel of intellectual input, then people who read the books above are akin to the eating habits of poor college students: all ramen noodles and greasy take-out and pizza delivery, things that fill you up but lack the nourishments required to feed a body or things so very unhealthy and damaging to a body.

People need to read literature. Or at least I think that they SHOULD need to read it. That they should hunger for it, crave it, and devour it when they get the chance, and I have no idea why they do not.

Literature is what feeds one’s soul. It’s what allows us to know that we are human and to relate our humanity to the humanity of others. It’s not just entertainment… not just a mystery to solve or a page-turning-adventure-full-of-twists-and-turns-that-grabs-you-and-never-lets-you-go. It’s much, much more than that.

Reading literature makes one a better person.

Reading magically and invisibly changes who you are. It shapes you like a sculptor shaping clay. It covers the pockmarks on the face of your inner-child. It fixes that which is intrinsically wrong with each of us. It changes you, and it always changes you for the better.

In the past 5 weeks, I have read the following:

Fragile Things by Neil Gaiman (short stories and poetry)
I Feel Sick Vol 1 & 2 by Jhonen Vasquez (comic books)
Stardust by Neil Gaiman (fantasy)
SQUEE! by Jhonen Vasquez (graphic novel)
Shipwrecks by Akira Yoshimura (Japanese fiction)
Nymphomation by Jeff Noon (cyber-punk-esque science-fiction)
Fire at the Center by Geo. W. Proctor (science-fiction)
How to be Good by Nick Hornby (fiction)
Starwings by Geo. W. Proctor (science-fiction) (reading currently)

I’m now nearly halfway through Fragile Things by Neil Gaiman and I must confess I am entranced. Gaiman truly is a literary genius and is ever fighting his way up my list of favorite authors.

The book, a collection of short fictions, poetries, and personal recounts if phenomenal. The stories contained within it are brilliant and thoughtful and seem to breathe as if they have a life of their own. Despite the differing genres or unconnected style, they are all clearly and undeniably Gaiman’s voice.

The collection starts with A Study in Emerald. A strangely homogeneous Sherlock Holmes story set in world inhabited (and ruled) by The Old Ones of HP Lovecraft’s tales. To be sucked so far in to world so unfamiliar and yet still feel perfectly at home is strangely remarkable feeling.

This book has reawakened me to reading. I fell out of the habit some months ago. From time to time, I attempted to start up again, but those attempts failed and I have several books sitting about, gathering dust, that were started but never finished.

And it feels good to be reading again. To forsake the computer and the television and the Internet with all its distractions and entrapments… It feels good to say “Fuck it all. I’m going to go outside, sit on my patio, and read.”

And that is just what I am about to do right now.