When I was a young child, I read a lot.  I loved to escape to the dumbwaiter with “Harriet the Spy,”  a book I re-read over and over.  And I understood Ramona, because I think I, too was a pest.   I spent summer afternoons and countless evenings reading, with my mother or by myself.  I remember being in school, anxious to leave to get back to whatever book captivated me at that time.  Saturday afternoons spent at the Public Library are precious memories.  I affectionately remember the smell of the library, old books, and the crinkly plastic covers on the books to protect them.

When in high school, however, I took little pleasure in reading.  It seemed so much of my reading was forced on me.  I might now enjoy great British or American authors but in school, it was stilted and boring.  I remember dreading American Authors class and “The Red Badge of Courage,”  by Stephen Crane, described as one of the most influential books in American literature; a book my 8 year old son might grow to love.  But at the time, that and “The Scarlett Letter” by Nathaniel Hawthorne, were simply dreadful.  Which, by the way is interesting because I think “The Scarlett Letter” is one of the most intriguing books about Puritanism and the psychology of sin. Somehow, I don’t think it was quite presented to me that way in high school.  I think my dislike of literature grew because of the way I was expected to learn about these works.  It was not for the enjoyment at all. Continue reading →