Classic literature often portrays reading as the antidote to loneliness, sadness, and isolation. But I’ve found my love of books nestles more closely to the fact I am insanely, annoyingly, incorrigibly curious. About everything.
I simply cannot fathom how so many go through life without experiencing the profound joy of a beloved character overcoming hardship, or fascination about a life you’ll never experience first-hand, or simply shutting off from the world to sit in hours of silence with a bloody good story about which you had absolutely no idea about four hours earlier. I certainly don’t pedestalize reading above all else; I love a good 10-part Netflix series as much as the next person, believe me. But a life without books? Unimaginable.
My favourite book: ‘Yellowface’ by R. F. Kuang
It’s genuinely not often that I sit down to read a book…and physically, physically cannot put it down. I started reading this on Saturday morning, and was still sitting there, unmoved, hours later when Matt got home from football—and he was playing away that day. The pacing, the unique subject matter, the examination of human emotion, racism, and identity: all so elite that I bought this book and sent it to three of my friends to read as well. A standout novel for me. Just so, so, so good.
