Ash and glitter

This is why I read. And it’s completely selfish, because it’s like cake. You want that last piece for yourself, because it’s darn yummy. You may say you don’t, but you do. And once you’ve got your hands on it, you want to creep into a solitary corner and enjoy it. Maybe, to quote Dylan Moran, book a room with it.

Same with words. To quote again (I need to live up to the epithet Quotation Bitch*, after all), “We were language’s magpies by nature, stealing whatever sounded bright and shiny” (Salman Rushdie). And boy is this bright and shiny.

That’s not to say I’m planning to steal anything per se, just… you know. Book a room with it. This is language that opens doors in my head, and I plan to make the most of it. It’s a magnet for my own words. They come scurrying like mice. They don’t even care about mixed metaphors.

(Speaking of metaphors… Glitterland is kind of a reverse Cinderella, isn’t it? The name should tip you off: Ash. Granted, nobody loses a shoe, but then they wouldn’t, would they? That would be truly unforgivable.)

So… yeah. Words. Those things that some of us have a disturbed relationship with. Those things that, like musical notes, are finite, but with which you can build infinite things. That, put together in the right way, can be a friend.

Let me quote again: “The best moments in reading are when you come across something – a thought, a feeling, a way of looking at things – that you’d thought special, particular to you. And here it is, set down by someone else, a person you’ve never met, maybe even someone long dead. And it’s as if a hand has come out, and taken yours.” (History Boys)

My hand has been taken.

But apparently, every time I adore a character, other people think they’re a jerk, so I don’t know what that says about me. Oh, wait, I do know what it says about me. It says I’m kind of a closet jerk, and reading about others who are (over-)honest about their flaws is SUCH A RELIEF.

I looked around for a bit at reviews after finishing the book, but I think I’ll stop now, because I’ll only get bruised. I don’t want to know what others think about Ash. He’s mine now, and I’m sticking my fingers in my ears going la-la-la because I looked into a mirror, and someone found the words to describe That Which Is Nothing, and even found something to love in there.

So. This is not a review (obviously). It’s a message in a bottle to someone who doesn’t exist.

Me too, Ash. Me too.

Mwah.

 

*So dubbed by my parents. True story, ain’t no lie.