Falling in love with books again

Being a bit cheeky, I nabbed my flatmate's copy of 'The Lovely Bones' off the shelves and ended up spending my evening trying not to leave any evidence of my reading on her virgin book. This is hard. As a serial book-bending, corner folder, I am instinctually driven to ruin paper. I like to feel I'm able to leave my mark on the reading experience, even if that means a bit of my dinner makes its way between the pages.

Anyway, I'm getting off the point. It's not often anymore I get literally lost in reading. It vaguely happened over Christmas when I read Sarah Waters' 'The Little Stranger', though this was hampered by my acute awareness of silence at the boyfriend's parents (I'm a bit scared of silence - blame growing up in a TV-permanently-on house). But this book hit me in my heart, mind and soul, and took me out of myself and into the mind of Susie Salmon; the book's unfortunate heroine.

Given the uncomfortableness with which reading a book half-open brings, I bought my own copy today to consume over the weekend. I took extra pleasure in flattening it out and making the spine wrinkle on my lunch hour. Folding the first corner it, too, was satisfying. And it's mine. I like having my own things. Even books.

I realised how useful books can be in taking you out of yourself. They can help you to forget about your worries, and step into someone else's head for a little while.

For me, it doesn't matter if that head is in a dark place - I shall indeed read 'The Road' despite it's bleakness (the movie stuck with me and I can't quite let it go yet). I adore exploring their dark corners, drawing parallels with mine and lavishing in their differences, like a forbidden treat.

Nor does it matter if it's a very light place; an air-head of a book, so to speak. I fell a little bit more in love with Bex; the heroine of Sophie Kinsella's Shopaholic series that I guiltily stole from my sister's shelf over a period of time. My favourite book thus far is Sarah Waters' 'Tipping the Velvet'; not exactly air-head, but so far removed from my life I draw little parallels with it. But its opening paragraph - describing the Whistable oysters - never fails to draw shivers of excitement down my spine. I can climb inside Nan's head and hide out a little while.

It's the being in the moment, despite not in my moment, but in that of a character. It's leaving my own worries to the side for the moment, to wonder at those of others'. It's forgetting to watch Katie Price's latest debacles because I'm wanting to get to know Susie Salmon.