At the Centre of the Literary Circle

Reading is hard work. And I don't mean that in an editorial "Oh dear, being alert at every word, correcting every grammatical, spelling, syntactical and factual error there is!" manner - when you take on a job, you either have what it takes inherently, or you inculcate those skills to become an inherent part of you.

Reading is darn hard work... for me at least. My dogged attempts to savour and understand each and every word on every page to uncover every possible nuance that every reading opportunity proffers notwithstanding - and I do feel like a dimwit at having to compulsively re-read every para a minimum of five times to be satisfied at having grasped whatever meaning I can squeeze out it - reading leaves me exhausted mentally and physically thanks to my habit of not being able to put down a book until I've finished it. My reading speed may be quite good, but it does me no good to stick to such a habit so that I may play with what my eyes percieve, to convert the literal to figurative, back and forth. On the whole, that is what is satisfying about thi entire reading thing, that the literal can offer figurative avenues of exploration and back.

I've noticed that reading for hours on end can leave me with a physiological ache, a sort of breathlessness, without noticing I actually hold my breath till I'm done reading. What I feel afterwards is thirst, incredible thirst. It's no joke then that publishing lunches involve drinking routines... the thirst for knowledge is, figuratively speaking, quite literal.