There are few things in life more satisfying than a good book. All my life I have been mocked for my open enjoyment of the written word. Sometimes I feel guilty about the time I have dedicated to the selfish act of losing myself in the stories of others. At other times, like now, I want to shout about it. I want others to share this feeling of overwhelming contentment with life. I want them to experience the joy I find between the covers of a good book.

 

The first book I fell in love with was Alexander Dumas' "The Count of Monte Cristo." I could smell the sea air as Edmund descends from the decks of the Pharaon on that fateful day in February. I could feel the cold as it cut through the rags Edmund wears in his cell at the Chateau d'If and I celebrated when Edmund feels the ocean again, regaining his freedom. As I consumed the book chapter by chapter I became more and more involved with the heartbreaking story of Edmund Dantes, Abee Faria, and Mercedes. I remember telling my friends at recess about the previous chapters' events as though they were happening to me. It was the first book that made me cry.

 

Over the years I've enjoyed the company of many other books. Some that stay with me. I carry them in my soul, conjuring their presence when I need comfort. I just finished "The Shadow of the Wind" by Carlos Ruiz Zafon. The book was a love story for readers. An ode to books, their authors and their readers. As the last paragraph slipped past my eyes and into my memory, I was at once elated and sad that it was over. I wanted to call the friends who recommended it to me and thank them, and I wanted to just sit and digest it. I turned back to the first chapter and found the passage that hooked me, then held me fast like an addiction.

 

“When a library disappears, or a bookshop closes down, when a book is consigned to oblivion, those of us who know this place, its guardians, make sure that it gets here. In this place, books no longer remembered by anyone, books that are lost in time, live forever, waiting for the day when they will reach a new reader's hands. In the shop we buy and sell them, but in truth books have no owner. Every book you see here has been somebody's best friend.”

 

Thus Daniel and the reader are introduced to the Cemetery of Forgotten Books. The story takes us through war torn and recovering Barcelona. It unwinds the mystery of the book that Daniel recuses from the Cemetery of Forgotten Books in hauntingly beautiful and engrossing chapters that trick you into reading more. Zafon explores the hidden darkness that lies within, the secrets people keep out of kindness or shame and the sadness of first loves. At the heart of the book is a book. The love of the story. Shortly after Daniel returns from the Cemetery with his “new” book he reads it. He finds within those pages what I felt the first time I read about Edmund.

 

“...few things leave a deeper mark on a reader than the first book that finds its way into his heart. Those first images, the echo of words we think we have left behind, accompany us throughout our lives and sculpt a palace in our memory to which, sooner or later- no matter how many books we read, how many worlds we discover, or how much we learn or forget- we will return.”

 

I have always felt this to be true and have read The Count of Monte Cristo every year since. When trying to explain how reading has influenced me, molded me into the person that I am, I have always struggled. Thanks to Carlos Ruiz Zafon, I'm now a bit better at it. Books are like friends, some are merely acquaintances, others stay with you your whole life and some you can't help but love.