Know him, because a boy who reads understands syntax. Literature has taught him that moments of tenderness come in sporadic but knowable intervals. A boy who reads knows that life is not planar; he knows, and rightly demands, that the ebb comes along with the flow of disappointment. A boy who has read up on his syntax senses the irregular pauses—the hesitation of breath—endemic to a lie.
Beware of him, because nothing sucks worse than a boy who reads. Beware , I say, because a life in purgatory is better than a life in hell. Beware , because a boy who reads possesses a vocabulary that can describe that amorphous discontent as a life unfulfilled—a vocabulary that parses the innate beauty of the world and makes it an accessible necessity instead of an alien wonder. A boy who reads lays claim to a vocabulary that distinguishes between the specious and soulless rhetoric of someone who cannot love him, and the inarticulate desperation of someone who loves him too much.
Meet those boys who read because boys who read are the storytellers. They sense mysteries around them and breathe words for their survival.
Meet the boy who reads because he knows the importance of plot. He can trace out the demarcations of a prologue and the sharp ridges of a climax. He feels them in his skin. The boy who reads will be patient with an intermission and expedite a denouement.The boy who reads has spun out the account of his life and it is bursting with meaning.
Copyright ©2017. Mihir Trada.