Tags: Term Paper AbstractsCv Personal Statement SalesMacbeth Practise Essay QuestionsGrowthink Ultimate Business Plan Template Free DownloadEssays On Importance Of Women EducationSample Research Paper Introduction ParagraphProblem Solving Test MckinseyDifferent Types Of Essay SDo Assignments Online
He would lie back on a bed and prop me up on his chest and invent things to tell me.I am told that the two of us stayed up long after everyone else had gone to sleep, and that my grandfather kept extending these stories, because I insisted that they not end.
I began to defy them in this way, and to understand, from books, certain things that they didn’t know.
Whatever books came into the house on my account were part of my private domain.
I learned about the vacations they took, the blueberries they picked, the jams their mothers stirred on the stove.
For me, the act of reading was one of discovery in the most basic sense—the discovery of a culture that was foreign to my parents.
But I remember the excitement of watching my mother purchase it for me and of bringing it home.
Inside the front cover, beneath the declaration “This book is especially for,” was a line on which to write my name.
I remember coveting and eventually being permitted to own a book for the first time. The book was diminutive, about four inches square, and was called “You’ll Never Have to Look for Friends.” It lived among the penny candy and the Wacky Packs at the old-fashioned general store across the street from our first house in Rhode Island.
The plot was trite, more an extended greeting card than a story.
The stories were transparent riffs on what I was reading at the time: families living on prairies, orphaned girls sent off to boarding schools or educated by stern governesses, children with supernatural powers, or the ability to slip through closets into alternate worlds.
My reading was my mirror, and my material; I saw no other part of myself.