Books are a magical door that leads to emancipation. Its diverse vocabulary not only accentuates its originality but also highlights its purpose of existence throughout space and time. Offering unconditionality in all shapes and colors, books constitute an infinite limitless space of possibilities. Its rich linguistic content is further displayed in the light through book fairs that offer quality literature from any publisher whether local or international. Book fairs are also a great way to help other families add to home libraries, theirs, or their friends.
They constitute a chance for community members to shop for educators, fulfill wish lists or build libraries at places like local doctors’ offices, restaurants, or nursing homes. They are a magical and unforgettable experience where children can become readers by enriching their reading and comprehension skills which often builds knowledge and vocabulary critical for understanding subjects’ matter during their academic journey ( especially the subjects that demand individual writings as part of assignments ). Book fairs enable families to make reading a family event which through active participation can lead to magnificent outcomes.
This article will dwell the light on my first visit to a book fair and its constructive effects on the building of my character as both a reader and a writer.
The weather during my first visit to the book fair was a spring hot day. Discouraged by it, I decided not to go, but due to my very young age ( eight years old ), little choice I have but to simply agree on going. The transport was fine though, I got to sit in my mother’s lap since I was not so heavy and there were no empty seats on the bus leading to Sousse.
On our arrival, my sisters went searching for books that had been assigned to them to read by their teachers. My mother held my hand and showed me around.
The book fair contained hundreds of books located on small tables everywhere. I could not reach all of the tables due to my petit size at that age, so, I remember feeling so bored and the thought of going home was the only thing on my mind. The number of people there also was enormous.
For an antisocial introvert like me, that crowded place during that weather was a total nightmare. I insisted on my mother to go home, so as we approached the end of the fair, my mother went back in search of my sisters and had to leave me next to a cupboard, because it was getting too crowded, and the possibility of me getting lost in the crowds is accurate.
My mother simply requested that I would stay behind that cupboard until she finds my sisters. Out of curiosity about this abandoned cupboard, I found myself next to it, I opened it in search of toys, or candy, however, I found other books that have different titles and covers from the ones on the tables of the fair.
The covers of the books were too beautiful to be ignored, composed of sparkling sketches and catchy titles. I reached my hand to the first book that appealed to my sight. It was a book titled Le petit prince.
I remember feeling a breeze of softness and warmth like never felt before when I touched the cover of the book. Many questions run into my head at the sight of the cover, the way the little boy was standing seemed to be somewhat ambiguous, and as much as I tried to decode the components of the cover, I just could not find the convenient answer to my questions.
Why is a little boy standing that way? What is he wearing and why is he alone? I remember noticing also that he was not standing on the ground, it was rather what seemed like another planet, which was not the planet earth, does another planet apart from the planet earth exists? My questions were left unanswered at that moment because my mother came and I did not read the book at the fair.
She did however buy it for me due to my insistence on ‘saving’ it from getting thrown. The cupboard books were to be thrown because nobody bought them. An instant attraction was created towards that book which was absolutely uncontrollable. I remember feeling extreme sadness while leaving the fair, not for the people or the weather, but rather for leaving the books.
I wished to buy the entire books in the cupboard as means to save them, feeling strongly that of no doubt, there is an entire universe beneath their cover. On the way home, my questions concerning the book I bought of le petit prince kept duplicating in my head, generating even more questions in alternative forms leading to my absolute knowing that, I had to read it.
As an attempt to clarify my state of curiosity caused by the ambiguity of the cover, I would consecrate time to read, which is something I do not usually do. In my spare time, I would do any activity but read books, however, the book was somehow too appealing to be ignored.
Having it with me somehow made a difference, adding both meaning and sense to my day-to-day routine. The book was a portable magic that contained a beautiful transcripted chant whose echo shaped my entire system of thoughts, it was a familiar sound that I have been in search of for what seems to be a long long time.
Finding it was the answer to my entire existence. I would engage in reading with all of my senses; the feeling of the papers on my fingertips, the sound of the pages flicking, the smell of book ink, all these features are the main constituents of the proper definition of happiness.
The world being expressed through the words was too clear for me to see, and hear as Carl Sagan declares ‘’One glance at a book and you hear the voice of another person, perhaps someone dead for 1,000 years. To read is to voyage through time.’’ Reading the book introduced me to new dimensions of being.
On the basis of imagination, everything seemed possible, well-composed, and leads to marvelous journeys. I did not know back then it was Saint Exupéry’s book, I thought it was the character of the little prince expressing himself in this marvelous work of art. I strongly believed that the boy exists and that the book was one of the few pages of his diary.
Portrayed himself in whatever aspect he desired ( a prince for example ), and freely expressing his thoughts about the possible outcomes of hypothetical situations such as; having an ephemeral rose on a planet called asteroid B-612, traveling through a series of asteroids.
That book was something, not just a pretty cover. It was of equal importance as almost anything else on earth. It was a work of art, a whole universe as Anne Lamott stated; ‘’what a miracle it is that out of these small, flat rigid squares of paper unfolds world after world, worlds that sing to you, comfort and quiet or excite you.’’ Which led to generative beautiful ecstasy.
I became so fond of that book that I would take it with me everywhere I go, even though I had finished reading it. It was my companion and my trustworthy friend that had major constructive effects in the short and long run. From building vocabulary to reducing stress, and preventing age-related cognitive decline, and has increased my ability to empathize with the world around me.
As a child, I came to wisdom through open-mindedness and a willingness to explore the world around me and within myself. And I strongly believe that the main theme of life itself is expressed in the secret that the fox tells the little prince: “It is only with the heart that one can see rightly: what is essential is invisible to the eye.” Progressively, I developed a curiosity about the linguistic components of sentences.
Primarily, I was captivated by the use of words in the book rather than the general understanding. I wanted to know where the words I read in the book originated. I felt there was more language existing beyond the sentence. It is worth mentioning that the reading of my first book was facilitated by my pre-knowledge of French.
I was so familiar with Second languages because my mother taught me the basics at home when I was eight years old. As means to ease the depth of my solitude, my mother ( who is an Arabic teacher ) introduced me to the language. Ever since it was the only thing to ever know. Every component of sentences was correct, or incorrect, depending on many other factors.
The combination of all of the components composed the simplest scene to ever be witnessed. Everything in the real world seemed to be too complicated, or mal-structured. My sense of estrangement never seemed to withdraw as time passed. Which was highly remarked on by my mother.
Based on my dedication to studying language, and my excellent results in it, my mother had the idea of taking me to a book fair that was held in Sousse seasonally to further enrich my knowledge of the language, to establish my own interpretation of topics and maybe even create my own version of it.
My mother was the first person in the entire world to see the light in me and to whom I dedicate my entire being. She introduced me to the marvelous world of literature expressed through books where I have resided ever since.
Books helped me overcome my sense of estrangement or at least come to terms with it by showing me who I truly was beneath and despite everything. It helped me overcome difficulties by constituting escapism for me as stated by Anna Quindlen; “Books are the plane, and the train, and the road. They are the destination and the journey.” I identified through it and with it and most certainly would have never imagined a world without it.
Over time, books became my shelter, safety, and the way to the establishment of my well-being. I would just read to feel less alone, to feel fine physically, mentally, and psychologically. Nobody from my family was as hooked as I was to reading and without even knowing it myself, I was, totally and absolutely hooked.
I had never imagined in my mind that it will be a day when I would be so attached to something that much. I would dream of the characters, see them on the roof when I go to sleep chanting and smiling so beautifully and I remember thinking to myself how lucky I am to be so blessed by this safe home, this reliable trustworthy friend, an origin of beauty, happiness, and infinite freedom. Like going to a psychiatrist for psychological comfort, I would go to my books. Like checking into a hospital to obtain physical comfort, I would check into libraries.
I could not even if I tried to leave my books. It was a beautiful world in and through which I was identifying. Before I even notice or try to control it, my love for it was being manifested behaviorally. After reading a book, I would draw the setting; the place or places in which the events took place. I would also draw the characters.
Trying to get a clear image of the place is beyond interesting to me. I believed in the existence of somewhere or someone in the lines. They do exist. They have found the secret to achieving immortality through hiding between the lines. Mentally I was partially present with the people around me. My stories’ characters would occupy all of my thoughts. What would happen, is that possible, yes everything seemed possible and infinite. My first book generated the reading of my second book. I remember I loved the style in which my first book to read was written, so I asked my mother to buy me another that is written with the same imaginary captivating style.
So she bought me Alice in wonderland ( by Lewis Carroll). So, what if ‘Alice’ was not in ‘wonderland’? and was Alice ever ‘in’ wonderland? Or was she through? These questions never left my brain after reading the book, and I thought it would completely blur my vision in understanding the meaning of the message trying to be conveyed throughout the book but somehow, I was mistaken.
I found myself answering these questions, not orally since no one from my entourage shared my passion. So I resolved to write as a means to answer my questions. I wrote about everything, not only the possible answers to my emerging questions. I would assume things, even hypothetical situations, and write them down on paper. My papers seemed to duplicate and as soon as I could notice, I was writing my own books. Over time, my sense of curiosity did not disappear, other questions emerged in my mind, and a need to know more about this further amplified over the course of the years and there was too little to be done about it.
At one point, I was on the edge of insanity. My eyes would go around in search of Alice, for all of the characters I have read about in my stories, books, novels, fiction, dramas…Words that I have read became so alive within my thoughts that they shaped my view of the world and became as equally important to me as the air I breathe. I did not mind going insane for it because maybe “we’re all mad here” after all.
I preceded in reading and in writing until this very moment of my life. I have read an uncountable number of books and written several books including; Margo, Frigörelse, and Summerland… still working on two books; into the blues and the loneliest hour. In addition to books, I have written poetry, which is majorly centered on the themes of love and hope. I have written a children’s fiction called the magical factory.
I have also written several short stories after reading Alice in Wonderland, where I would design my own covers for my books and glue all of the papers together. We were always on a low budget after my grandfather died, and I do not want to overload my mother with extra paying. I might have written more than that though. I remember if I was not reading I would be writing, if I was not writing I would be reading. These were and still are my main day-to-day activities.
Book fairs enable families to make reading a family event which through active participation can lead to magnificent outcomes. Through it, I have been introduced to the love of life that are books and through them, I experienced a new world based on imagination and limitless possibilities. Book fairs also project the importance of reading in reducing stress, and improving concentration and memory through the offering of books that are the best and ultimate option to improve reading, writing, and speaking skills as well as boosting memory and intelligence.
Books also provide knowledge of the outside world and lead to vocabulary expansion and strengthen one’s writing abilities. It enriches knowledge concerning different topics ( such as culture…) and most of all increases imagination and creativity which can lead to writing your own books. My books and I, in simple terms, spoke the same language. We saw each other through, we sheltered, and protected each other, been forever there for each other and most of all we loved each other over the years.
