A kindred spirit from a different era

From the moment I learned how to read, I devoted most of my time to it. I eagerly consumed any reading material within my reach, whether it was from the library or the numerous bookshelves in my home.

While eating breakfast, waiting for classes to start, and during recess, I read. I tried to read several times while walking home from school, being careful not to step on a lamppost.

When I had nothing else to read, I would turn to the back of milk cartons and the Cheerios box. Regardless of the book, I could always immerse myself in the story. I was determined not to abandon even the most dull reads because I was curious about their endings, just like with the rest.

There are certain books that I revisit repeatedly, shedding tears, bursting into laughter, and feeling terrified. Occasionally, I stumble upon exceptional books that feel as though they were crafted specifically for me.

Reading Pride and Prejudice for the first time felt like a transformative experience. It was as if a new insight had dawned on me, almost like rediscovering a lost part of myself that had slipped away before I had become aware of myself.

As I grew older, I discovered that it became more difficult to stumble upon such treasures. It seemed like a feeling of innocence or naivety had disappeared. It is only now that I realize how much I yearn for the experience of immersing myself in a story written by an unknown author, transcending time.

I went to the woods because I wished to live deliberately, to front only the essential facts of life, and see if I could not learn what it had to teach, and not, when I came to die, discover that I had not lived.

Up to this point. Up to the moment when I decided to read one of the many books I had planned to read someday. That's when I began reading Walden and discovered a kindred soul in Henry David Thoreau.