Rainy day lost in a good book

This time last year we were still cleaning up from the flood. It is raining as I write and I have the urge to start moving stuff from the first floor of the house to the second. We have replaced most of what we lost when the overflow from the river invaded our home and I have no desire to go through that again. As no water has yet pooled in the backyard, I stifle the urge and finish my book.
A rainy day is perfect for reading. The occasional low rumble of thunder is nothing more than pleasant background noise. I treated myself to “The Girl Who Kicked the Hornet’s Nest,” by Stieg Larsson when it finally came out in paperback. It is the last book in the trilogy. I can see where there is a slim possibility of a fourth book, but since the author is dead, that probably won’t happen. Gracie, the calico cat, curled up on my lap for the final satisfying chapters.
As usually happens when I read for too long, I am battling a headache. It is a small price to pay for a vacation from reality.
When I am immersed in a good story I become oblivious to the rest of the world. That is the beauty of reading. Nothing else exists except for the characters and events contained in the silky soft pages of print. Even time is suspended.
In addition to being transported to another place, a good book requires one to suspend preconceived ideas. In a work of fiction it becomes perfectly logical that people can fly. Time doesn’t have to proceed in a linear fashion. Waif-like characters become capable of defeating hulking monsters. Even religion can be turned on its head by an imaginative author.
A good novel is more than simply words on paper. The characters become favored friends. We root for the good guys and cheer when the bad guys get their comeuppance. Unlike in the movies or on television, we get to decide what the characters look like. The book may describe them as blonde, but we decide whether they are flaxen-haired or darker. In a book, we never see Clint Eastwood portraying Robert Kincaid in “The Bridges of Madison County,” instead we see our own version of Kincaid which may look nothing like the rugged actor.
Books engage the imagination. Our own experiences enhance the story as we attempt to figure out what is going to happen next. How will the heroine get out of the mess the author has put her in? Will the bad guy win this round? We try to figure out who the real villain is before the denouement.
I tend to read a story out of order. I read the beginning, flip to the end, then read the middle to find out how the characters got from here to there. Knowing that the bad guy is still around at the end does not diminish my enjoyment of the tale. I often can’t wait to find out if two characters get together.
I also flip back to what I have previously read if a book has so many characters that I can’t keep them straight. The Stieg Larsson characters were particularly difficult for me to keep straight as the good guys and bad guys had similar names.
Curling up with a good book on a rainy day is the ultimate luxury for me. The background noise of rain and thunder is as much a bonus as a cat curled up on my lap. I recently read a quote by Groucho Marx, of all people, that sums up my feelings exactly. “Outside of a dog, a book is man’s best friend. Inside of a dog it’s too dark to read.”[[In-content Ad]]