To read something to understand what the writer or author conveys or what he
intends to be convey, just to understand and enjoy without any necessity to
analyse or interpret to an audience, is really a pleasurable pastime.
When we do that without dancing to the writer’s fancy, it is a more comfortable
activity. However when we set out to read
with a hawk's eye always intent on finding fault and with the sole aim to coin
and post some sarcastic or sour remark , anticipating reaction or "like" s, that becomes a
stressful activity, even a nightmare.
Ultimately, sensible reading takes a lot of training and discipline. We
just grow into the process.
True, in the course of gaining such experience, we may spend a few nights
in the wayside inn of "reading for the audience". That is merely a
temporary phase.
Like listening to music or enjoying a work of art, reading too can be sheer
pleasure.
We find ourselves in the personal and exclusive territory of the author,
laughing, crying and even dancing with him, as he interacts with us through the
printed words. That is a great experience, sublime one, for a lover of words. For
a lover of letters that happiness would be almost on par with realization of
the Supreme.
As we read on, at some stage, we would become conscious of the style or the
lack of it in the writing.
However, we will progress further into a stage where grammar and syntax
would hardly matter. We just resonate in harmony with the ideas and emotions
conveyed by the author.
Then we would devour a book from its flyleaf to the last page, never bothering about time or space.
There we can shed tears of ecstasy for having shared with the author those
unearthly moments and tears of agony that the book has reached its end.
Maybe, such things happen rarely in our lives, our reading life.
