Treasure in clay jars

There are a few precious books that I go back to time after time. Over the years, they have become friends, companions on the journey, the measuring rods that mark my passages. I go months without thinking of them... and then suddenly there they are again: those characters, those subplots, those literary themes, dancing in and out of my consciousness, beckoning me back like a lighthouse casting its signal into the fog. I’ve read them into tattered pieces, ripped them apart to save precious ounces in a backpack already bursting at the seams, and then purchased yet another copy to abuse gleefully. Some I have read in multiple languages, searching for new truths uncovered in translation. When I am feeling lonely, or scared, or filled with inexplicable and overflowing happiness, I turn to them. When I need to hear a particular universal truth, or evoke that singular emotion, I know exactly which passage will deliver the goods. I’m a book junkie, always planning the next hit.

I have read them dozens—some surely hundreds—of times. The covers become careworn, the pages dog-eared and underlined and tear-stained, and the substance never changes. Ruth May always succumbs to snakebite, Ayla and Jondalar never fail to find each other in the valley, Meg perpetually loves her father back to life. These friends make the same mistakes, they suffer the same consequences, they overcome the same obstacles, every time. But every time I turn to them, they reflect back a different me. Through their prisms my emotions are projected in new rainbows. My experiences take on new meaning.

I didn’t choose these books for their literary value, tight plotting, mature character development or insight into the human condition. They chose me, sought me out, cornered me and wriggled their way into my heart. I have digested them, absorbed their nutrients, let them change me from the inside. Insult them, and I get defensive.

They are a treasure, and will always have a place of honor on the shelf and a place all their own in my heart. But in a way their hands, as their spines, are bound. They can reflect changes, but not catalyze them. They can’t probe my insecurities or allay my fears with well-chosen words. They can’t deliver a much-needed hug. I know them inside and out, but they don’t know me. And so, friends, they will eternally complement, but never replace you.