A Reflection on the Books That Inspired Me to Write
When I think about the objects that define me, it is striking that the ones that immediately come to mind are not, in terms of their physical presence, unique: they travel the globe in countless copies, existing in many languages and libraries. If I lost them, they would not disappear but rather continue to exist as works of art beyond one person’s identity and possession, beyond one person’s attribution of meaning. The items that I am describing are books.
Looking around my room, I see the various objects that my mother and I have collected over the twenty-two years of my life which, all arranged together, create the safe haven that I identify as wholly and fundamentally mine. Photos of me and my loved ones mark my ownership of the room and evoke the sweetest memories of friendship and affection. But these photos are just a reflection of what I already carry within me. As pages from my memory encapsulated, made physical and fixed, the photos bring me comfort and joy; but they are already mine, and without words, the profundity of their meaning is known to no one else. In contrast, my books are my belongings that express my personality and soul beyond my own limited, incomplete existence. My books reflect what I have learned from the great writers of the world, those insightful and eloquent philosophers who share their hearts with ink and touch the lives of those who receive what they have to offer. My books reveal what I have learned from others and about others, the kinds of stories that I value and seek out, and the narratives that I wish to guide and inspire me in my own life. But like I said, they are not, in their physical existence, exclusive to me: they have a meaning and existence beyond mine, and perhaps that is why they are the most important. They connect me to other people, other thinkers who have reflected on what is true and meaningful in life and what defines the human condition. They demonstrate my curiosity about the world and all the places that I have traveled to in my mind. They have made me a better person, a more critical, deep thinker and conscious, empathetic individual.
What are some of these books that have so molded my identity? To begin, I name a book that is special because of its beautiful prose and the role it played in my childhood. Authored by Shannon Hale, The Goose Girl opened my eyes to the immense possibility of words and awakened the hunger in my soul that would lead me to great literature. This book introduced me to an entirely new way of visualizing the world. For my middle-school self, Hale’s creativity in describing feelings, reactions, and the natural world was truly a revelation. On a peaceful, sunny day, the leaves on the trees “waved” warmly to the protagonist like little hands shimmering in the light. Later, when she is fleeing her pursuer, her pulse “snapped” in her veins, evoking the sharp agitation caused by fear. I remember reading these passages and actually pausing, remarking on Hale’s unique word choice and the potency that it lent to her observations. I admired her ability to perceive and elucidate the world’s beauty, to illustrate the ordinary or cliché in a distinctive and memorable manner. I remember thinking that this is what distinguishes an author as a writer rather than a storyteller, what marks him as someone who not only has a unique perspective to share but who is able to do so by making language an artform. Likely for the first time, I thought to myself, I wish to become such a writer one day.
A novel that provoked a different awakening was I, Claudius by Robert Graves. It is not an especially profound or philosophical work, but its clever and humorous animation of historical figures makes it brilliant. Reading it for the first time in middle school, I was amazed that someone could engage with history in so vivid and captivating a manner. I had never experienced historical fiction of such quality before, never knew how intelligent and fascinating it could be. I fell in love with Grave’s wit and easy narrative style (as I would later with Gore Vidal, another master of historical fiction), and I was confirmed in my love of learning about the ancient world. Along with Egypt, ancient Greece and Rome became my favorite periods of history to study: the people involved were larger than life, accomplishing daring feats that transformed the Mediterranean world. Just the emperors of Rome by themselves made such a remarkable story that I can draw my love for Classics, and my decision to major in it, back to this very book.
Next is Cold Mountain by Charles Frazier, which I discovered in high school and decided to name as my favorite book whenever people ask that impossible question. Cold Mountain is, quite simply, a masterpiece: the landscape, the characters, and the storyline unite to exude a soul that is found in only the greatest works of literature. The novel focuses on the region of the Carolinas encompassing the Blue Ridge Mountains, which I have called home for my entire life. Frazier has a wonderful eye for the nature of this area, for its beauty and power, and for the bygone way of life that was in such harmony with it. The story takes place during the American Civil War, a topic which is especially relevant and informative to those who live in the South. For one, the book offers the perspective of the poor Southerners living in the mountains who owned no slaves but were nonetheless forced to fight for the interests of the wealthy plantation owners. It goes on to discuss the consequences of war upon the men who fight in it and upon the people who, though left behind, still suffer from its injuries and depravities. As a result, Cold Mountain deepened my appreciation for the natural beauty of my home as well as my understanding of a brutal and scarring part of its history. Yet the characters are what make this book truly unforgettable: their desires, perspectives, and hardships provide one of the most beautiful and insightful depictions of human nature that I have ever read. The book is as uplifting as it is poignant, as sweet as it is stark. Though the characters are fictional and the period of time that it describes has passed, it nonetheless ranks as one of the most authentic and moving expressions from and about the human spirit. Cold Mountain captures what is true and strikes a chord that is deep, deep within me.
Then comes the classic Tess of the d’Urbervilles by Thomas Hardy. This novel comforted me when I was going through one of the toughest times of my life. During my sophomore year of college, I was very sick and for a long time did not know why; as a result, every day I felt vulnerable and afraid, frustrated and depressed. This book was assigned reading for my British literature class, and it appeared like a saving grace. I was struck by Hardy’s masterful use of the English language, which in his hands is elevated to an artform, and his poetic reflections lifted me out of the anxiety, pain, and nausea that had become my daily life. I was moved by the story of Tess, whose tragedy made my own suffering small in comparison. Indeed, the bleak beauty of the novel comforted me when no person could: its intimacy and honesty moved me to tears, and by crying for Tess — a woman driven to desperation by the cruelty and negligence of two men, whose privilege denied them insight or empathy into her struggles — I also cried for myself. I relieved my sadness by reading about hers and, more importantly, came to a greater appreciation of the support and understanding that I received from my family and friends. For all of these reasons, this book will always be part of me.
Thus closes my list of the books that are especially meaningful to me, the novels that have truly impacted my consciousness and growth as an individual. As I grow older, fond memories merge with new insights when I flip back through their pages, making them a continual source of joy and enlightenment. What a blessing they have been and continue to be! I look forward to coming across more of these blessings in the future.
