Ya always hardly could analyze own feelings, without knowing plainly - whether such analysis and whether it is possible to transfer to words the thinnest, sometimes the movements hardly obvious to a brain is necessary in general; I cannot answer, than there was for me a children`s passion to reading. There was a wish to read - and all here! whether
Peculiar the fear of reality expressed thus? Some kind of eskapizm, convenient flight there where Don Quixote or Shveyk became much more real than school teachers and estimates? Or through the text dissolved on the page that magnificent views and images appeared another appeared through, not ours a couple, reality? Reality where everyone could happen and where the linear, front decision was not so unique. Anyway, present adult attempt of preparation of passion of that time hardly leads to a definite answer. Most likely it - this answer - will gather from a set of assumptions, with additions of interpretations of verbal art new, adult already, whether verses, prose.
But, is probable - in a chair or on a sofa, in a country hammock or the capital apartment - with the book I carried out the most part of the childhood; big - considering today`s proportions of memoirs. And the fact that the passion to reading arose in me background of an ordinary illness - whether colds? Quinsies? - did not paint it, this passion, in painful tone at all.
So, on a bed, very extensive, in the middle of a communal flat whose ceilings surpassed my imaginations of that time, having recovered from temperature, but not from weakness, I appeared in private with the blossoming world of Gogol texts, and the Sorochynsk fair let in me the myth oversaturated by bright details. The world behind a window faded, and left somewhere, and pages began to sparkle fireworks of words. The extensive school classes fading when falling the teacher`s intonation fraught for many ceased to seem reality, and good marks for something learned by heart lost
A was to me years nine or ten - that is very much for the first, let and prompt immersion in literature, and I was learned to read late, and that is called from - under sticks (I remember the father, extremely gentle person who suddenly is beginning to boil discontent from my stupidity when I, inclining over Black chicken of Pogorelsky could not catch confidential communications of words in any way.) . whether
Thought I then, having become engrossed in reading of Gogol that I grind or I develop soul? Whether thought that there is other? Or - what hardly - sustains injuries? Not a mutilation, of course, and an inoculation against the ordinary which was too interfering even in children`s life. Hardly I thought in general of something - simply, taken, watched the magnificent panorama suddenly developed before me. In a magic kaleidoscope the Fair, Night before Christmas, the Nose, the Carriage changed; and this most notorious ordinary did not want to come back to a lens in any way.
Yes, of course, then, in process of expansion of reader`s addictions, I more and more dropped out of daily affairs, I feel an incredible difference between what was offered by books and the everyday range. Or the melancholy for perfection, hardly possible out of lines, together with early some ushchemlyonnost to troubles, illusiveness of a reality was so shown? whether
Suffered I because? Or an opportunity to burst into tears over Hamlet too a peculiar gift, explainable hardly even an adult brain? Anyway, it is felt, at first slightly, then even to excessiveness - thinning of soul, not really, likely, important for existence among physical bodies, but, maybe, necessary for future reality which - whether failures, dreams, dreams - since the childhood potayonno enters mind, deforming or deepening it. At the certain level the reading person begins to consider
that the person in general - the sum of the read books. It`s not true. It is rather a person - the sum of what he loves - in a broad sense; and in general person, perhaps, peculiar sum of the sums. You should not overestimate the book, but upas you God to underestimate it. In the present filled with terrible quantity of book models - in bookstores with the kilometers of shelves hammered with what differs from a shirportreb of supermarkets a little - the book lost sacral value because it despite a difference between really going, familiar to us in feelings and preferences, udacha and failures by reality and the book magnificent garden giving not only magic, but also sacred fruits, this garden svyazut us with the past, burdening, from the narrow-minded point of view, knowledge. It opens for us the future - as fruits it radiate light. And exactly being a reader or a vozdelyvatel of a garden, we can understand at last that life which is thought to us valuable in itself in effect is the narration about a way - whether short, long - to certain point (it would be desirable to tell - final that it is impossible owing to infinity of the movement) - to a certain destination which will open death, and behind which there will probably be a new way - and the narration about a way it is impossible to carry out differently, than through the book.