I remember thinking when I was
younger that “this book changed my life!” was a silly thing to say. How can a
set of words arranged in a certain way have such an effect? How suggestible are
some people that they can be swayed so easily into a different mind-set?
They’re just words, aren’t they?
I was so wrong, wrong, wrong,
wrong, wrong.
For those of us who read and spend
so much time inside our heads, books can be keys that open doors on our journey
through an endless maze. Some of these doors hide empty cupboards, others have
dead-ends, and some hold terrifying thoughts we never knew we could contemplate.
Sometimes we open a door that leads us into a realm so vast and unbelievable
and interesting and magical that even if we wanted to we could never go back,
for there’s far too much in front of us to see. It makes us realise that our
quest for understanding can never be complete, which is a wonderful thing. We
can learn for eternity.
I have Sir Terry Pratchett, and
rain, to thank for giving me my key. As a kid, I was outdoorsy. Sure, I’d read
a few books: The Hobbit; The Incredible Journey; those choose-your-own
adventure stories. But they were something to be read on journeys or in school
when I couldn’t be outside kicking a ball or on my bike. One endless Sunday
afternoon, aged ten, when my brother had the computer, my sister had the
television, and rain had the outdoors, I took a book from my brother’s
bookshelf, one with wonderfully bonkers illustrations on its cover that
depicted a man in a nightgown wearing a floppy hat being chased by
horn-helmeted warriors and a box with hundreds of legs. That book was
“Interesting Times.” To this day, I think it’s the only book I’ve ever read in
one sitting. After an hour of reading, I wasn’t really on my bed in a small
town in north-west England with rain pelting the windows anymore; I was in
another universe among wonderful and scary people, surrounded by impossible
scenery that I could touch and smell. And believe. Terry Pratchett made me
believe the unbelievable. I can’t think of anything better a writer could hope
for.
Yesterday, I shed tears for a man
who I never met, yet felt I knew like a favourite uncle. Today, I’m happy that
I knew him at all. As he said, no one is actually dead until the ripples they
cause in the world fade away. And he made ripples to rattle the cosmos. By
reading his works, we will keep making splashes.
I can’t wait until my niece is old
enough to read. I know that one day she will find a locked door, and will
wonder what is behind it. And I will hand her a key…
