I read quite a few books. Some good, some great, others well... not so much. I don't often talk about them, but I just read a part in a book that I just started this morning. It's called "The Book of Lost Things." and here it is.
"Stories were different, though: they came alive in the telling. Without a human voice to read them aloud, or a pair of wide eyes following them by flashlight beneath a blanket, they had no real existence in our world. The were like seeds in the beak of a bird, waiting to fall to earth, or the notes of a song laid out on a sheet, yearning for an instrument to being their music into being. They lay dormant, hoping for the chance to emerge, Once someone started to read them, they could begin to change. They could take root in the imagination, and transform the reader. Stories wanted to be read, David's mother would whisper. They needed it. It was the reason they forced themselves from their world into ours. They wanted us to give them life."
I love this. This is why I read.
