at christmas i was pleasantly surprised when my friend gareth presented me with a rectangular-shaped gift wrapped in shiny paper. no, it wasn't the pony i'd been dreaming of. but it was still pretty special. inside was a hardback book by francis spufford called the child that books built: a memoir of childhood and reading, the opening words of which are:
"'I can always tell when you're reading somewhere in the house,' my mother used to say. 'There's a special silence, a reading silence.'"
this kind of silence i knew all too well as a kid...and this kind of silence still characterises my days (along with some background chatter, the existential perplexities of downtempo guitarists, and the clunks and hisses of the coffee machine, when at common grounds). this book came as a treat, and was a joy to read. spufford revels in memories of fictional landscapes traversed as a child, but also mourns the loss of wonder that came with growing up and out of his early fiction addiction... a little reminder that our imaginations are only as healthy as the pages we feed them. with that in mind, and with a blogular reminder from phil, there might be one or two more bookish posts on the www.
our appetites for wonder need a little nourishment and encouragement.
