and birkerts throws me for a loop

Birkerts’ second chapter is one of the most intensely personal pieces of writing I have ever read. He tells the chronological account of his life and literature intertwined and as I read I lose sight of my initial misgivings. As is probably evident in my first post, I found Birkerts’ opinions to be unfounded and to some extent I was repulsed by his seemingly condescending self. After reading the introductions I could barely get through his first chapter, so focused was I on the way he made me doubt my competence. It wasn’t until Birkerts’ writes in his second chapter, “what made me a reader were the experiences I got from the books themselves”, that he got my attention (35). From that point on I was enthralled by his inspired descriptions of his experiences with books. Birkerts’ writes,

“It is easy enough in retrospect to see a book as a screen, a shield, an escape, but at times there was just a magic – the startling and renewable discovery that a page covered with black markings could, with a slight mental exertion, be converted into an environment, an inward depth populated with characters and animated by diverse excitements” (35).

If ever there were a case for the importance of pathos in literature this chapter, “Paper Chase”, would be it. It wasn’t that I sympathized with Birkerts in the sense that I felt sorry for him, rather I felt a strange kinship with him. In all honesty this chapter was a little unsettling, for as I read many similarities between Mr. Birkerts and I became evident. No I am not from Latvian ancestry and I don’t have any daddy issues but I did grow up reading ceaselessly due, I believe, primarily to my mother’s influence. My mom is an avid reader and an occasional writer and I do believe she read me a bedtime story the night they brought me and my sister home from the hospital. During my early childhood my mom owned a children’s book company called “Abbey’s BenAnas Children’s Books” (my name, my brother’s and my sister’s.. cute huh?). This constant exposure to literature can certainly be attributed to my love of reading but it’s not fair to say that that was the sole reason for my interest in books, for my siblings, who were exposed to the same literature as I, have entirely different interests. No, like Birkerts I believe I felt a personal connection to books all of my life. (Now I would like to make the distinction that unlike Birkerts, reading did not and does not take precedence over other activities. As I child I would spend the entire day outside and only then would I come in and read. Why I feel like I have to make this distinction.. I don’t know. Perhaps because of the plain and simple fact that many people don’t find it favorable to spend one’s time invested solely in reading and I am afraid of being seen as one of the unfavorable. Sad, but true.)

This connection is what led me to where I am now, a college freshman majoring in English with dreams to be a writer. As I said before, I found this chapter to be unnerving; it was difficult for me to read about Birkerts in college, and downright painful to read about the life he embarked on after school. While reading about his “fantasies” about “travel and the eventualities of a writing career” and then his claim that “the soothing futurity at the core of the fantasy was gone” I was struck by my own, scarily similar fantasies and dreams and the possibility that, like Birkerts, I will someday find that my dreams were just that, that they won’t be my reality and that there is no future to look forward to (52,54). Although Birkerts did find his niche in writing his essays I can’t help but mourn the loss of Maine and his novels and the dreams that sustained him through all those years of reading in closets.