books and reflection

I just finished reading "The Great Gatsby", which was one of hundreds of vintage books I inherited from my dad. He had all of the classics, and I am slowly but surely working my way through the pre-loved novels.  The scent of second hand books always conjures up fond memories of my father... Whenever we would go on family holiday, the first thing my dad and I would do was scout out the beach side town's local secondhand bookstore (and the one in closest proximity to a flat white and an iced chocolate!). We would spend sometimes all afternoon in there, I remember sitting on the ground captivated by an Enid Blyton or Judy Blume book while he would potter about.

In primary school, the library was my haven, and there was a time where you could find me there everyday (I was quite the nerdy little book worm). In particular, there was one shelf in the library that I would always go to for my favourite genre, fiction. Oneday, I picked up a new title from my 'go to shelf' with cover art of a surprised looking boy standing by a red train steaming out star-hazed purple smoke.When I got home from school that evening, I pulled it out of my purply pink library bag, and began to read...

It didn't take long until my 12 year old self was absolutely captivated. I felt like I was part of this secret magical world that nobody knew about except a handful of those most carefully chosen. Like I had found the key and unlocked a worldful of dreams and possibilities never to have been imagined before. For a fleeting moment perhaps until the phenomenon took over.

I cant remember if he was still alive to tell him how amazing this new book was that I had found, but all I remember is that he never got to read it. Sometimes I miss those little things of the "I wonder what he would have to say about that".

I remembered seeing on Oprah that Jo Rowling's own mother passed away before she got to tell her about Harry Potter. Here is part of the transcript where she talks about her mother.

I like though how she goes from regretfulness to realising that is how life is, and that everything that happens in your life happens for a reason and it can make you more resilient.

Rowling: If I’m totally honest with you I regret much more that my mother never saw any of it (Harry Potter). That – that’s a bit of a killer. I mean she would have just –

Winfrey: Would she have loved reading it?

Rowling: I can honestly say I know a hundred percent she would have adored it. Yeah. Yeah.

Winfrey: But you started writing before she passed?

Rowling: Yeah, but I never told her about it.

Winfrey: You never told her?

Rowling: And I would have done. You know? I would have told her about it and I know she would have really liked it. I think she was – I think it was six months before she died I started writing. Yeah, and I never shared it with her.

Winfrey: Do you regret that?

Rowling: Yeah, hugely. Hugely. But the odd thing is that that’s just life, isn’t it? The books wouldn’t be what they are if she hadn’t died. I mean her death is on virtually every other page of the Harry Potter books, you know? At least half of Harry’s journey is a journey to deal with death in its many forms, what it does to the living, what it means to die, what survives death – it’s there in every single volume of the books.

Winfrey: What the love of your parents – the love of you parents. How that abides with you still. Yes.

Rowling: Exactly, exactly. Exactly. So, if she hadn’t died I don’t think it’s too strong to say there wouldn’t be Harry Potter. There wouldn’t – you know? The books are what they are because she died. Because I loved her and she died. That’s why they are what they are.