Reflections of a Female Bibliophile

15 July, 2011

‘To be or not to be, that is the question.’ A single spotlight, and a pitch-dark stage -- a lost wanderer, merely a foolish player. But where is the dawn of my everlasting darkness? 

I seek no revenge, readers*. Nay, neither sympathies.

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Dashes, dots, disfigured shapes... Strolling forward, and an inch more; wandering backwards, bewildered; an inch, more... In the dawning drizzles do the silent spires of Oxford savour their sensations...

Emotions are heightened, indeed -- tiptoeing on the thin streams of raindrops, the flossy dark hair swings, moisturised; tip, top, tip, tap... And now, her shoes -- the elegant flats, dark coloured -- are embraced by the gentle greetings of the playful raindrops. Ti, ta, ti, ta... Sweet smiles and wane whistles. Ti, ta, tip, tap... Her eyelids are shut. Yes, shut, as a forbidden pathway in a deserted execution chamber -- as if they cannot be opened with ten thousand hands, of the mortals. Taking a deep breath, the female bibliophile tries to shut her brain. 

Beneath the thin layer of baby raindrops, which reflected her dignified figure, is the historical ‘Broad Street’.

Trying hard to go on walking -- just an inch more -- her mind is occupied with the words of wisdom from the light readings she has done late the previous night. 

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That is a scene from a true story, and I am the female bibliophile.

As this is my first diary entry, I would like to use a straightforward style of writing, in case you curse my wicked mind just like the others. Now that you may assume that I am rather eccentric; you may even suggest that I have a psychological disorder. Frankly, even my own Mother believes that my memory system is abnormal - she swears to burn my books and Library Cards each time she sees me (but this is only a threat, for I hide the most precious objects in my life too well). With no pocket money at all, I could only dream of spending cozy afternoons reading in the local bookstore, Blackwell’s, unnoticed (for Mother constantly threatens me to put the books out of my mind, saying that I cannot live with the ‘hogwash information’ instructing me what to do every day). That is why I had to sneak out before dawn this morning - only to stroll with a book in the City of Dreaming Spires.  

The situation is even more chaotic at school... You see, I attend a girls’ boarding school in Oxford, the city where I grew up.  

‘Conventional freak!’

‘Medieval jerk!’

‘Do you think that you are Shakespeare? Huh? This is OXFORD, not STRATFORD, folk!’

‘Hey 15-year-old bookworm! Do you enjoy the taste of the yellowish pages?’

Let every foul word begone! Fair is not foul, and foul is not fair. Draw back your delicately decorated little smiles, and let your disrespectfully inscribed frowns disappear in the thin air! It is the very soul of mine that is addressing your unlearnt hearts! In what boredom do I struggle amid the crowd of the mortals!

But this is what happens every day. This is my life and today is no exception, for they never get tired of scorning me. It is another drizzling day, and the air is fairly wet. As I entered into the classroom, conversations about going to Moo Moo’s for some strawberry milkshakes, visiting Primark to get some cheap but ‘stylish’ accessories, were audible. I was first ignored, and was then surrounded by the usual coldness and cruelty. They are not even jealous of my intellectual level, for they do not even try to catch up with me during classes. 

‘Ew, books?!’ And a wicked sneer. This is not your time to laugh!

It is now dusk. Brassed off, I composed a sonnet this afternoon, when the campus was quiet as everyone went for the latest Potter film. Let me share it with you now --

Hear us indeed the distant echos of church bells

Remit all agitation. Dream lilts 

Which doth shed lights on the dawning tales

And flies to enlighten scholars’ spirits:

O yes! It is not imaginary

But wanders in the historical town

Planted in every single ovary, 

The seeds go on spreading generations down...

There classic blends with modernity

Perfectly is the combination created:

Where knowledge exceeds authority,

To be challenged and debated.

As thou amble in Oxford, beam

For thy heart wilt be full of dream.

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Life is like books. True, I have sacrificed my life for them. I shall ne’er join ye, mortals!

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Sneers, and coldness. Dot, dot, dot. -

She doth dream.

*My diary entries are available to readers after my death. Indeed, I do not expect to live long due to my delicate health; however, I would recommend any mortal to read my reflections to learn about a female bibliophile’s life, to reflect about their lives thus (if they would care about their inner reflections, that is, the mind’s construction).