Plenty has been said and written about the world famous and well-known tradition of the British tea-time and the most beloved Cuppa tea.
I shall not invent the wheel here.
From the astonishing work of Henry James’s early period, The Portrait of a lady.
Under certain circumstances there are few hours in life more agreeable than the hour dedicated to the ceremony known as afternoon tea. There are circumstances in which, whether you partake of the tea or not–some people of course never do,–the situation is in itself delightful.
Passion. Hunger. Need.
I wake up and one motion I do – a book I reach out for. Eyes still closed, I caress its cover, my door to imagination. The first thing in morning, the last thing at night. More than love. Sometimes an obsession. Reading is what gives me the drive, the motivation, the strive to live. Another world I submerge into. Hundreds of thousands of billions of ideas, of minds, of stories. In some of them I may find just a teeny-tiny piece of useful information, others could read my mind and expose me head to toe, naked to them, as if they had been written for myself and only me in the world. Good books tell us what we already know but hesitate to confess – our deepest concerns, fears, loves and hopes. Our selves.
I do not care about night clubs or posh meeting places, as long as I had a nice reading, blanket (and a cuppa tea).
Take books away from me and I will feel lost and confounded. Alone. Deserted.
Bring them back and I will breathe and smile again.
What does reading mean to you?
Shhh, I am taking a book,
so please write silently