I can only remember one time I actually walked straight into a wall. In my defense, the windows in the Gap store were incredibly transparent, and who could blame me for thinking that they weren’t actually there? This memory brings to mind the scene in the second Harry Potter book where Ron and Harry run headfirst into the wall at the train station, hoping to emerge as per usual into a bustling crowd on Platform Nine and Three-Quarters, but instead find themselves splayed out on the floor amidst masses of Muggles, trunks toppled and owl squawking conspicuously.
The moral of the story, though, is not to suggest that my slightly traumatic experience in a suburban mall measures up to the far cooler scenario of missing a train to Hogwarts as per the devious design of a dogged house-elf committed to preventing a meeting of the Dark Lord with the one person ultimately destined to bring about his downfall. No, to be quite frank: I simply missed the telltale sheen of a clear window and ended up with a slightly bruised forehead. Rather, the reason I included this anecdote was to attest to the singularity of the event. My actually walking into a wall as a child was a rarity of the sort that did not warrant my being asked, time and time again by many a well-meaning family member or friend whether I thought I ought to be wary of bumping into something whilst walking around with my head constantly in a book.
On second thought, what I really wanted most to emphasize with that anecdote (in the most roundabout way possible) was my childhood status as a bookworm extraordinaire. My childhood was literally spent with my nose in a book. I would read while eating, brushing my teeth, sitting in the car, and sometimes during recess, if it happened to be a particularly absorbing book (even fourth graders get tired of monkey bars). And yes, I would often read as I walked from room to room, prompting rounds of tiresome teasing about my walking into a wall. Before nodding off to sleep each night, I’d deliberate over which of the seven books stacked by my bedside – all of which I was in the middle of – to read that night. A day was not complete if I hadn’t read at least a bit of a book, though preferably a significant chunk.
Cue high school. Suddenly, my spare time became study time and the novels by my bedside were replaced by study guides for various AP courses. Any bit of a break I could catch certainly wasn’t long enough to really get into a book, so instead of reading, I found myself on Instant Messenger (those were the days!) or randomly browsing online. To be fair, I didn’t quite give up reading entirely. It was still a huge part of my life, though it could no longer be as significant as it once was. It only got worse, though; by twelfth grade, I was able to fall asleep without even reading a page, a feat that would have been inconceivable to a younger me.
The Internet, with its capacity for instant gratification, lacked the depth of a novel, the intimate knowledge of a cast of colorful characters, the suspenseful plot, the thrilling climax. But a few minutes on the Internet certainly provided a quick rush of fulfillment: I could read a blog post in five minutes, check my email in three minutes, get a sense of international news in 30 seconds.
After a brief hiatus from both the Internet and my books while I was in seminary in Israel, I entered the wonderful world of Stern College for Women, where evenings were relegated to reading endless chapters in various textbooks. With my free time once again so limited, I wasn’t about to begin reading a book when I could use those precious few minutes to catch up on some blogs or initiate a neat little row of g-chats. Although I sometimes kept a book on my windowsill just in case, the minutes before sleep were usually illuminated by my computer screen.
Is it just me? I doubt it. Based on cursory glances at the computer screens of various fellow students, I’m not alone. The Internet has become a surefire way for a weary college student, bogged down with hours of homework, to take a quick break, to make the most of a few spare moments. It’s a universe where a blank Word document – demanding to be filled with pages of a political science paper or charts from a Chem lab – is relegated to a shy, unnoticed tab in the corner of a far more engaging screen. It would seem that the Internet is slightly more addicting than it is fascinating. Let’s face it – at some point, even pictures of cute cats with badly misspelled captions lose their allure, and the experience becomes more about the instant gratification of click-click-click than any meaningful adventure.
Sometime in the middle of finals, I suddenly became incredibly bored by my normal Internet activity; the blogs I frequented no longer interested me and Google News could only be refreshed so many times (surprisingly, the state of world affairs does not tend to dramatically shift in twelve seconds). Though my friends might be witty nonverbal conversationalists, there was nothing so captivating about my g-chats that I was in danger of burrowing my nose into a laptop and walking into a wall.
No, I was craving something different, something beyond the instant flashing of changing websites and blinking boxes. And so it was that when I arrived home after the last of my finals, I picked up the dusty copy of Pride and Prejudice that had been languishing on my bookshelf for years. Somehow, I could never seem to get past page 21, but I declared that this time would be different, confident that the time had come for me to finally take on this classic.
Luckily, I made it past page 20 – wouldn’t you know, page 21 turned out to be a real humdinger – and before long I couldn’t put the book down. I’d read while stirring soup on the stove, while making my bed, and yes, even while walking around the house. I’d curl up in bed to read while my laptop sat forlorn and forgotten in a dark corner of the room. Returning to the glory days of bookworm-hood was exhilarating – I’d forgotten the thrill of suspense, the anticipation of climax, the exciting progression from chapter to chapter. When I couldn’t stop ruminating about the contents of Mr. Darcy’s latest letter to Elizabeth, three minutes was no longer something to sneeze at. Instead of thinking I only had enough time to glance through my email, I realized that I could use the time to read at least a few pages and satisfy just a bit of my curiosity. Almost as soon as I finished Pride and Prejudice, I dove right into Sense and Sensibility. I felt that there was something different about reading Austen, with its 19th century English and florid dialogue, that required me to fully focus on the reading experience in a way some slightly easier reads don’t quite necessitate. I was wholly absorbed in reading and exulting in the reclamation of my once dormant passion.
A quick Youtube search reveals several clips of people actually attempting to run through Platform Nine and Three-Quarters. While I’m as big a Harry Potter fan as anyone – I may or may not have dressed up Hermione Granger three Purims in a row – I probably wouldn’t go so far as to run headfirst through a brick wall. But if someone happens to walk into a wall accidentally because they’re so absorbed in, say, a Harry Potter book, I’d heartily commend them. Rediscovering reading in a world where the Internet reigns supreme is no easy feat, but it’s not exactly as difficult as mastering the Draught of Living Death for a sneering Snape in a dank, dark dungeon (that was the last Harry Potter reference. I promise.). All it takes is a closed laptop, a comfortable chair, and a seriously awesome book. I’d recommend Pride and Prejudice, but that’s only because I promised not to mention Harry Potter again. In all seriousness, though, leave your laptop behind and head over to the New York Public Library when you get a chance. Pick a book, any book, and dive right in. It might not be easy, but it will be worth it.