I would definitely not have survived childhood with a microscope upon me, without diving into the world of literature - from Charles Dickens to Ian Fleming and everything in between. No phone, no TV to speak of and very few films to really get lost in reading became the salvation - I itched to read and I dove into the depths of the great storytellers of the 19th century.
Do you know that feeling where you actually inhabit the characters, you can taste what they taste and feel their emotions with the depth of the writer - OK maybe James Bond didn't have much depth but the stories were great pieces of a time machine that I sometimes think is now lost to the kids today.
If I was reading I was escaping and if I was escaping I was free. I sometimes think that part of my adventure is to visit the great shrines of Bronte world, Austin and George Eliot. To catch another flavour of their worlds so that I can really and truly join in their imaginative journeys. I remember visitng Howarth, the Bronte family home and seeing where the children - Emily, Charlotte, Anne and Bramwell all drew pictures and wrote on the wall of their playroom, their imaginatarium and I absolutely felt blessed by them. Strange.
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