If You Give A Mandle A Mouse A Cookie And Chrysanthemum

Reading novels is my answer to every obstacle and every complication that I ever experience. I recall my elder’s claiming I will not understand anything at all The Great Gatsby says when I first bought it. I was ten the first time I read The Great Gatsby, and till now I have read it thirteen times. At the end of each book I read I analyze them, and if they come to be one of my favorites, I even write a paper for myself. Reading novels taught me to understand people, it inspired me to learn more. Every book I finish leaves me longing for

Dr. Seuss once said “The more that you read, the more things you will know. The more you learn, the more places you'll go.” As a kid Dr. Seuss was always my first choice for bedtime stories. He’s rhyming and illustrations grabbed my attention. As I got older my interest in Dr. Seuss began to fade. Throughout my elementary and middle years I enjoyed reading the different Children’s Choice books. In fourth and fifth grade I was apart of this book club where we would read all the Children’s Choice books for that year. Once my group finished reading all the books we participated in a competition. The competition consistent of about 6 different groups of students, each from different school. There was a “spokesperson” that would read off different question, the questions could be from any Children's Choice books. Our goal was to

I spend my free time battling giant windmills with Don Quixote, rolling down hills in a tire with Scout, and exploring the depths of the sea with Captain Nemo. I have spent my entire life surrounded by literature. In my younger and more vulnerable years, my parents would read to me every single night before bed. My impressionable young mind absorbed stories about Meg Murry, Mary Poppins, and Harry Potter. Thus began my life-long affair with books. I was an odd child. I opted out of playing kickball or tag with my classmates and instead sat under a big oak tree reading. I entertained myself for hours as I walked the

I embraced what it means to be a real reader at a young age. I didn’t merely read books, I LIVED books. My second grade teacher insisted her students write about their favorite books and why we chose that specific book. Easy peasy lemon squeezy Mrs. Laforte! Gazing down at the paper on my beloved cubby desk, the choice was clear: Dinosaurs Days by Joyce Milton. “I love this book because I love dinosaurs. I even have dinosaur toys!” (From an adorable little boy a.k.a. Bradley). It was around this time when I delved into solely fiction novels such as Narnia, which undoubtingly influenced how I viewed the world and its inhabitants. Nearly everyone daydreams when there is a certain lack of stimulation, but I’d bet I spent

The name Dr. Seuss is well-known all around the world. When one hears the name Dr. Seuss, amusing rhymes and quirky characters are surely what come to their mind. However, Seuss should be recognized for much more. His eccentric characters and captivating rhyme scheme grasp the reader’s attention; also giving them an experience that they will cherish for their entire lives, and pass on to their children. It is obvious that his books are not in short demand, one just needs to walk into any book store and there are shelves upon shelves full of his many books. Individuals grow up having their parents read his books to them. Many have learned to read by using his books and have owned at least one of these iconic books. Seuss not only wrote children’s books but he also: drew ads for major companies, wrote war propaganda and films while in the U.S. Army, wrote two books for adults and fit historical events into many of his children’s books. One could say that Seuss is one of the most varied and prolific American authors of all time.

In the beginning, the librarians acted as the mentors to my hero. They scanned Easy Children’s Fiction, introducing me to new friends, new stories, new universes. I braved first grade with Junie B. Jones, memorized Silverstein poems, and climbed tree houses with Jack and Annie. The months went by, the years went by, and eventually,

I would like to preface this essay by stating that I am not fond of reading books. Starting in elementary school, with the way literature was handled, I began perceiving reading books as an obligation, nothing more. Few of the books we were made to read over the years interested me, so I tend not to read them out of my own volition. There were exceptions, of course – I enjoyed reading Steinbeck’s Of Mice and Men, for example.

I remember as a child the weekly trip to the public library. Our town was a typical small town in the Midwest and a trip to the Carnegie Library on Main Street was always an adventure. I remember the high ceilings and the slowly turning steel gray fans which hung from elaborate plaster medallions. I remember the smell of wood, of leather and paper covered in printers’ ink. I remember dust lines on the shelves in some sections, and I remember standing in lines behind children in others. Yet, most of all I remember the wonder and the excitement waiting to pick the perfect book with the perfect story to fill a need of adventure in the coming week.

“A reader lives a thousand lives before he dies. The man who never reads lives only one,” wrote George R.R. Martin. People read all kinds of books, some just for fun and others just for work. There is no limit to the books that can be found in this world, and even more are still being made now. Murder mystery, romance, adventure, action, etc. Books open the mind and create a mental movie only you can enjoy. You can decide what every individual looks like, what the scene looks like, and you can pretty much do anything when you read. For part of my life, reading did not play a major role; however, now it is a way of life.

In the novel, A Dance with Dragons, renowned author George R.R. Martin writes “A reader lives a thousand lives before he dies. A man who never reads lives only one.” As a child, I thought I had experienced every joy there was in the world. Little did I know there was an entire universe, a land filled with magical creatures and astonishing new inventions, just lying in wait for me to explore its depths. To open up a book and learn about the thrills and adventures associated with reading is similar to changing lifestyles at the turn of a page.. Throughout my life, reading on my parent’s lap, experiencing my first series of novels, and truly understanding the elation that came with opening up a good book all helped me develop the love of reading

It was rare for me to see my extended family, but I remember always being intent on getting my Aunt Diane’s attention. When I did go to her house, she would envelop me in her arms as I peeked into her tutoring room, stacked with books and bowls of jelly beans and cashews. Ostensibly for students, she would encourage me to steal a handful. Soon, the warmest of interrogations would begin: “What book are you reading?”, a question for which I learned to prepare. We discussed characters who broke her heart—“could you believe how Dorian Gray turned his back on Basil?”—or those she fell in love with—isn’t the first line, ‘Howard Roark laughed’, so enthralling?”. She ingrained in me how books open up new worlds and that “the great reader of literature is destined to become a great reader of life.” With infectious passion and the kindest of smiles, she was the one who encouraged me to read books, and to love

Curled up under warm, weighty covers, propped up on a plump pillow or two, buoyed up by the prospect of an uninterrupted hour, I open the cover of a book and immerse myself in the story. As a child, this was the scene night after night as I devoured books as fast as my mother, or the library, could provide them. I remember reading in the attic on warm summer afternoons, surrounded by piles of books as flies buzzed lazily on the window panes; I remember reading in the car on visits to Grammy’s, plagued eventually by nausea as the miles ticked away under the tires; I remember reading in my bed on Saturdays, undisturbed by parents, siblings–anyone– as the hours slipped away into Sunday. I can’t remember a time when I couldn’t read. I believe the ability to read is a gift that every person deserves.

The power and freedom that lies between the pages of novels has the ability to transport the readers to a new world, impart a wealth of knowledge to them, offer a new perspective, and so much more. The only limit on novel are the covers that bind them, the ideas within them can be cherished and shared forever. Although written in 1837, Emerson’s quote, “Books are the best of things, well used; abused, among the worst” still holds true today. An avid reader or skilled author wields unparalleled power, power that can be used for a myriad of good, or infinite evil.

Unmistakable recollections of books wind their way into my brain. Adventures and characters with which I once found great comfort urge me to pick up a new novel. Titles flash across my eyes calling me to reach for them. In the haste of the moment, I grasp a fraying hardcover off the shelf. Running my fingers across the surface of the cover, I feel the slight ridges of protruding letters. I peel back the hard cover to reveal a synopsis of what this particular story entails. With impatience and excitement, I devour the summary. In an instant I know that I have found the one--my soon to be next escape from the hectic world I call my life. Book in hand, I turn toward the leather chairs, seemingly waiting for me at the end of the row of shelves. Without taking my eyes away from the novel, I begin my descent into the withered pages. The peace that comes with the words told on the yellowing pages fills my heart. A smile full of pure joy stretches across my face as I’m whisked away, yet again, into another

One of my earliest memories as a child was of my father’s imposing dark-oak bookcase, stocked full of tomes far bigger than my young mind could comprehend. The case loomed over the living room of my childhood home, so many more of my memories have that tower of knowledge and dust as an intimidating backdrop. However, the bookcase always felt much safer when my father was around. With him, it turned into a place of exploration, with me asking my father what “this and that book are,” “what are they about,” “are they good.” So from a young age I built a connection between literature and my father. He was the one I went to time and time again as my reading skills developed, impatiently blurting out to him what happens in my short picture books