My brother, who is older, richer and eminently more successful than I am, flew in for Christmas. He seems to have answers, or at least the spread sheets, for almost everything in life. He once, very effectively, explained my heartbreak to me with a flowchart.
He knew instantly something was wrong. Perhaps it wasn't that insightful; I was carving things into the kitchen table with a teaspoon. But, when I'd managed to gibber out what was wrong, he had an answer.
"You need to read more." Then he took me to the library.
I've always loved libraries. Having the religious ardour of a fig means I don't go to church. The library is the place where I'm in touch with a higher power.
When I'm in a library, my soul uncurls, stretches and thinks, "Oh. Breakfast." There is so much knowledge in the room, so many stories, so many hilariously frustrated tweens on dial-up computers.
The physical building itself has a somewhat fruity clientele. Any free public space, open in the middle of the day, is going to pull a mixed crowd. But that means it's the backdrop of countless adventures.
Once, an alcoholic tramp recounted his cancer diagnosis to me as I browsed. I'd been very middle class and was exuding polite indifference. But when he moved the conversation to, erm, romantic territory, I panicked. In a flash, the middle-aged library assistant raised her head, sniffed the winds, and pounced. The tramp was no match for her stern blue cardigan and glasses on a string. He scarpered. And we exchanged a stellar moment of solidarity between strangers.
And what about the library innards, its blood, liver and kidneys? The books. Books were the first adults to treat me as a human worth talking to. Books taught me about adulthood, love and humanity.
The Inspector Morse stories taught me that men are intelligent and sensitive and don't just want to hump everything that breathes. Pride and Prejudice taught me that humour is the pulse of writing; if it's not there, it's dead. Down and Out in Paris and London taught me I needed to care more about the real world.
And if they weren't the only reasons to adore libraries, they're also free. Free.
No guilt purchases because you wanted to please the helpful shopkeeper. No receipt shredding when you realise those socks cost $40. No prices in Australian dollars to make you think you're paying less. Just you and the books.
But most of all, reading breaks you out of the crazy home-again cabin fever. It takes you away from family arguments, discussions over bills, and furtive Christmas present swapping. It soothes frustration, restlessness and irritation by showing you all the possibilities of life.
I suppose the question is, why do I need to be reminded to read?
I've started reading again, and it's like a mind massage. But I frequently stop reading. I forget to read, I forget why I read, and I forget how I feel when I read. And when I'm not reading, I feel deeply, rabidly thirsty for life, but I forget why that is.
I've concluded that it's something I'm just going to have to build into my world. Otherwise, I'll just forget to do it, because we're humans - we forget everything. And I've got to remember, however frustrated you're feeling, Elizabeth Bennet is always going to be there, waiting to make you giggle.
