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Why I Read

Let books be your dining table,

And you shall be full of delights

Let them be your mattress –
And you shall sleep restful nights.

I would say that I am rather old-fashioned, and think that retiring with a book is one of the most gloriously charming occupations that the human mind can indulge in when in need of entertaining company.

Except in the case of a knowledgeable living woman or man, I feel that there is nothing more absorbing than an able book. It carries messages to us from the dead; souls we have never seen, souls who have lived in an era long before us, and yet, they come alive on these little sheets of paper, where they connect with us, tender us their wisdom, cheer and console us by opening up their hearts just as a friend would do – that is the comfort of books; the finest antidote against the vagaries of the human mind, of boredom and brainlessness. 

I read because I love the grogginess of sleep depravation from staying up late due to a book I just could not put down. It is what I call a perfect book hangover.

I read because it is an addiction and not all addictions are bad.

I read because I cannot help myself from not reading.

I read to learn, to grow, to laugh, to motivate, be motivated, shriek, waltz with mirth, and feel everything that the characters are feeling.

I read to understand things I have not been exposed to.

I read to find hope and light.

I read because I am not merely made up of skin and bones, of sights and sounds, of food and chocolate, but because I am also made up of words: words that best describe my state of mind. What is hidden within the alleyways of my thoughts, and the corners of my heart.

I read because a book is no less than a magic portal into another dimension that quite simply provides a soul to the universe, wings to the mind, flight to the imagination and a life to everything.