It might be with not having done English in a little while.
And by ‘done English’, I crudely mean to have been sat reading, and really reading; be thinking about what I’m reading and its merits and lack thereof. Knowing I’d then sit with a group of people, discuss, debate and compromise with them, in aid of a module.
It might be because of that time apart (although my Drama term definitely covered those processes in a way; with the discussing, debating and compromising being on its feet, rather than sat down. And the acting making it then inhabiting those struggles on their feet, rather than talking them into the room and then politely escorting them out as with a seminar.)
It might be that because of all this, with my last time reading a novel for a class technically having been March 2016… that returning to books for this module, has felt a little like coming home.
I’ve had chance to grow attached to literature again, without something feeling at risk.
When rehearsing a play, your understanding of the words feels somewhat vulnerable, especially when knowing this would then be assessed. When writing, your understanding of your own words is all well and good, but it really is a guessing game for when put in front of someone else. With my playscripts recently, I have enjoyed rereading them, but I have feared for how, or whether they would land. Or equally, I have thought back on the successes and the surprises when they became vocalised, and felt relieved or nervous.
I’ve realised reading is much safer. Safer for me.
Lila, especially, may have cast me out onto a dusty path in 20th Century Midwest America, but gosh I loved the company. Something about the intimacy of Marilynne Robinson’s indirect third person, or the palpability of the three-dimensional, and yet faceless character of Lila, really caught me. Insisted I stayed close. For safety perhaps. Mine and hers.
As I mentioned in the seminar, I felt taught by the novel. This echoes Johanna’s comments of how we are occasionally not told enough to just read, and to use reading to help inform our own voice as writers. I have mixed thoughts about that, but definitely agree Lila has shaped my understanding of the easy power good writing can have over those receiving it.
This feeling of being taught also surfaced for me in the measured humanity of the novel. It’s rare you encounter a piece of fiction that seems to impart the sense of a life so completely as Lila does. How eventually, through the character, I feel you come to understand the notion of grace.
I also agree with the critics who observed how Robinson ‘slows’ the process of reading. My experience with Lila very much captured what Eliot conjured in Mill on the Floss, of how being being curled up with a book is similar to being aware of ‘a great curtain of sound’ being drawn around you. You are held.
Yet, escapism as it may be, you are still your actual self when reading. You encounter the book on the terms of who you were and what you were experiencing.
I feel there is something for me in how I was ill when I began the book, and feel better upon finishing it. For falling for reading again.