Janet’s Journal: Reading as a lifelong pursuit

By Opinion Editor Janet Guan

A few weeks ago, I read a book for enjoyment for the first time in almost two months. Curled up in a blanket, I devoured the book in four fleeting hours, disappearing into a story years and miles away from my own.

I’ve always loved to read. When I was in elementary school, my mom used to take my brother and me to the local library every Sunday. For entire afternoons I would wander around, placing every book that piqued my interest into my bag. When I grew tired, I would retire to a corner by myself with one in hand, slipping into another world as my mom perused picture books for my brother. The book I chose varied week to week: comic books if I was feeling imaginative, biographies if I was feeling ambitious. Most days, I chose an ordinary novel — everything from Matilda to The Girl Who Drank the Moon. Regardless of what I read, I would leave the library flushed with excitement and voracious for more.

Reading was second nature to me as a kid. Every book I read was a microcosm of a new universe, each one more riveting than the next. I spent hours wandering through castles, exploring with wizards, fighting with demigods — all while in the comfort of my room. I brought my books with me everywhere, from school to family meals; reading, disappearing into each of these new worlds, was part of who I was.

I like to reflect on my early love for reading because I can no longer quite replicate it. Now that I’m older, I never seem to have the time to read as often as I used to. And when I do, I read with an external goal in mind — expanding my vocabulary, improving my writing, familiarizing myself with classics — rather than as a pastime. For my first two years in high school, most of the novels I read were from my English curriculum, and regardless of how interesting a school book can be, reading for analysis is hardly the same as reading for myself. Reading had lost its magical quality, and with it, my interest dwindled. 

My hiatus continued until this summer, when I finally felt I had enough time to read. After setting an ambitious goal of 10 books before August, I selected my first book: a 500-page novel I quit last year. There weren’t any castles or wizards or demigods, yet I ended up finishing the book at 2 a.m. the next day.

For the rest of the summer, I pored over historical fiction, cried over romances, and lost sleep over thrillers. I visited countries around the world and centuries across time. Sure, I didn’t finish 10 books before August, yet what I found is worth a hundred times more than any external goal: a persevering passion for exploration. 

I can still reminisce about my old love for reading, defined by nostalgic library visits and timeless fantasy stories. I can also appreciate my love for reading now, one that faces busier circumstances yet is just as rewarding. Either way, the moral of the tale is the same. Every story, from Percy Jackson to One Hundred Years of Solitude, has taught me something about the world and myself. That is a magic no new chapter, now or twenty years in the future, can erase. Because reading will always be my lifelong pursuit.