I was always a reader. As a kid, I walked to the library several times a week and stayed up late reading with a flashlight. I checked out so many books and returned them so quickly the librarian once snapped, “Don’t take home so many books if you’re not going to read them all.” “But I did read them all,” I said.
I was an English major in college and went on to get a master’s in literature. When I created my online dating profile, I made my screen name “missbibliophile52598.” Filling out the “favorite books” section, I let my taste in literature speak for me: One Hundred Years of Solitude, A Moveable Feast, White Teeth, The Namesake, The Known World, The God of Small Things, How to Read the Air.
But I realized it had been more than two years since I had read most of those titles. I had stopped reading gradually, the way one heals or dies. I tried to maintain my bookish persona. I joined book clubs that I never attended. I requested a library book everyone was reading, only to return it a week late, unread, with fines.
I still loved the idea of reading. I treasured books and bookstores. Whenever I found one, I would linger between the shelves for hours as if catching up with old friends, picking out volumes I had read and buying new ones. But it was clear to me: I was becoming a person I did not know.
David was my first online date. His profile said he liked to read, so I asked him about his last book. His face lit up and his fingers danced. David read much more than I did, about a book or two a week. We seemed an unlikely couple: me, a five-foot-three black woman born to a Caribbean mother, and him, a six-foot-four white guy from Ohio. But as we got to know each other, our shared faith and mutual love of books bridged our gaps.
Esta historia es de la edición February 2020 de Reader's Digest US.
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Esta historia es de la edición February 2020 de Reader's Digest US.
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