I am not one to savor a book. I tend to throw myself in, immerse myself, and read, read, read every stolen moment I can. The fresh food supply in the fridge dwindles, my boys happily eat Mac N’ Cheese rather than something time intensive, like baked organic chicken salad with chopped almonds and basil leaves. My husband feels neglected. But I can’t be bothered. I race through each page, hungry for more, living and breathing the story while pushing through the mundane tasks of real life.
My relationship with my new book is different. I am rationing the 936 pages as best I can. Like so many other past favorites, I love this book. But I need to treat this one different for a reason.
Shantaram puts me in the mood to get literary.
When I set it down, I want to form my own long, beautiful, dramatic, lush sentences. I’m inspired to write with passion rather than pure precision. Writing becomes emotion, not simply a means of expression.
Sometime, far too soon, I will allow myself to complete Shantaram. I wonder if I will look back on the pages I wrote during this time in wonder. Has my writing improved…are my words more meaningful? Or am I disillusioned by the intoxicating glow of a treasured novel?