“Reading a good novel is as difficult as writing a succesful novel,” says Goethe. Many people claim that they read a lot of books, but there are different ways and qualities to read a book and it needs time, energy, attention. The benefits that a book can provide to us depend on the perception power of readers and how much we want to take advantage of.
When I touch the cover of a book, I feel its heart beating under its thick, dusty cover, blood flowing through in its veins. Plot beat like a wild, huge heart under the cover. Sentences flow from the papers to the final paragraph. Books are real, they are like alive creatures.They can teach you things like a wise human, they can hurt you, they can cure you. The most part of is that they can speak you so a book is my best friend since my childhood.
Sometimes the letters start to burn. Reading a book is like walking on a hot road and a whole novel turns into a Gayya well. I jump into this well without thinking about the bottom of it. The hell are adorned by cold, watery emotional words, the more I read, the more my soul ignited and burns.
They are writers who hide their personalities behind a novel. Sometimes, they divide their personalities into pieces and sprinkle them with all the characters. Sometimes they combine all of those pieces in the body of a character. Thus, we see the subtle details of their lives or a reflection of their big events, a venue in fiction, a dialogue, an event, giving us interesting clues about the author. Reading gives us the information of who we read and what they are trying to do with this sentences.
Sometimes, writers hate the world they live in. The worlds they create are stretched over the real world, and the world they do not love, they want to heal, becomes invisible. Sometimes, they gather pieces of their novels from around the world to reveal the ugliness of the world they’re talking about with hatred. That way, reading makes you realize a lot of things that go wrong or reading will give you a new world when you don’t like the world.
Papers chasing each other while we are reading them, my fingers crashes the life when I want tos kip next page. I see magic on the paper sometimes. Books an maket he magic real and maket he real the magic. Writers use the words like tools and they etch the meanings. “If you say that there are flying elephants in the air, people will not believe in you. If you say there are three hundreds of flying elephants in the air, they will,” says Marquez. For instance, Magic Realism in Gabriel Garcia Marquez’s One Hundred Years of Solitude shows us that books can make the myth and romance possible. The possibilities of storytelling benefits many things for our soul. So reading a book encourage us to believe that we can make the impossible to the possible, right?
Sometimes, reading a book colour our black & White photograph. Reading a book widen our horizons. Like a myopic patient wearing glasses, by reading a book we wear a pair of glasses that we can see more clearly on our eyes. As we read, our sense of perception increases and life revives, the meaning of life becomes richer. The colors are getting vivider, the scents are getting sharper, the landscapes become more beautiful when we are reading. Our senses develop, our thoughts matures, the quality of our perspective on life helps us then.
So we can say that reading a book is a miracle that writers donate to us. Reading books is just as hard as writing. To fully understand the message or story that the author wants to tell, we pay a number of investment fees, yes.
Reading a book is the most poetic love story for me that I do not read, that I live.
Lastly, I want to write my peom which I wrote in the morning at the class about reading a book.
Touching a Book
I’m touching the cover,
touching the door of an other world,
that nobody seen before.
My eyes kiss the words,
the words that bind the east and West,
Greetings from Madam Bovary.
The letters are burning.
I’m falling in love with Gayya.
Every step I take,
feeling decorate the hell,
decorate with watery emotions.
They bury their past.
Under the fiction, you know,
You can listen the charachters,
who are talking with their mouths.
It harms my soul.
I like tragedy,
It kneels in front of reality.
Discovering the old loneliness,
It numbers my dreams in my head,
I am holding Marquez.
There she goes,
to hurt Pip’s great expectations.
Back to nineteenth century,
My hopes are drawning with the Pip,
who is fighting with Charles Dickens.
I am black and White,
Papers colour them.
I am turning the pages,
to touch other colours right now.