When we drove home from college last May, Amy, AJ, and I decided to take the northern route from St. Louis to Los Angeles. Up through Wisconsin --> Minnesota --> South Dakota --> Wyoming --> Colorado --> Nevada --> California. The geography was stunning. The US has such a diverse wealth of landscapes. Rolling green hills then flat cow-speckled prairies, drastic terra cotta rocks piercing endless cloud spotted skies, people concentrated only in the few and far between cities and towns.
As we were driving through South Dakota, I saw a sign for the Laura Ingalls Wilder house. The trip to her house, something like 90 miles out of the way, was vetoed.... and I've yet to let that grudge go. Not only did her books captivate my childhood, but they defined my girlish confidence and strengthened my sense of self. And I know I'm far from alone.
(here)
I love the shared experience that books provide. An infinite number of people can read the exact same words and have myriad experiences, interpretations, ideas. A single written thought shoots sparks in every direction, incessantly spurring domino reactions (always diverging and intersecting) of discourse, contemplation, understanding, confusion, who knows what else and to what degree.
That's sort of magic to me.
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