By Lisabet Sarai
I
figure my parents must have started teaching me to read when I was
four. Certainly I remember my pride when at the age of five, I could
make it all the way through Dick, Jane and Sally on my own. Even
before then, my dad and mom read aloud to my brother and me, not just
stories but poetry, too. Words—beautiful, lively, evocative
words—were a part of my earliest experience.
The
Owl and the Pussycat went to sea
In
a beautiful pea green boat.
They
took some money and plenty of honey
Wrapped
up in a five pound note.
The
Owl looked up at the stars above
And
sang to a small guitar.
“Oh
beautiful Pussy, oh Pussy my love,
What
a beautiful Pussy you are, you are,
What
a beautiful pussy you are.
That’s
from memory, laid down close to sixty years ago.
By
the time I was six, I had a library card. I read whatever I could get
my hands on, diving into alternative literary worlds that seemed at
least as real as the one in which I lived. I remember the Mushroom
Planet books by Eleanor Cameron haunted me. Then there was book
entitled The City Under the Back Steps (now
out of print, apparently), a cautionary tale about girl who’s
shrunk and imprisoned in an ant colony as punishment for her
deliberate squashing of the ants on her back walk. That (obviously)
made a huge impression on me—and I learned a lot about ants. A few
years on, I was devouring Nancy Drew mysteries, practicing to improve
my powers of observation and imagining myself as a clever detective,
and a series called Childhood of Famous Americans, bios of people
like Sacajawea, Betsy Ross, Helen Keller and Juliet Lowe. (According
to Amazon, this series is still alive and well. It now includes the
likes of Neil Armstrong and, heaven help us, Ronald Reagan!)
Science
fiction—Heinlein, Bradbury, Asimov—came a bit later. I read the
Foundation Trilogy in junior high school and was sufficiently
influenced by those books that I actually called a local talk show to
ask Isaac Asimov a question. Before you shrug and say “so what?”,
you should know that I was pathologically shy at that point and would
do anything to avoid using the telephone. (Remind me to tell you the
lost library book story some time.) My passion for his story overcame
my terror. (As it turned out, he was rude and dismissive. I was
crushed.)
Another
milestone I recall was The Count of Monte Cristo, at 1100+
pages the longest book I’d ever read. That was in 8th
grade. And Gone with the Wind—when would that have been?
Probably around the same time. All I know is that I cried at the end,
devastated that Scarlet’s blindness and pride had robbed her of
Rhett’s love. Meanwhile, Stranger in a Strange Land, also
consumed during my mid-teens, had a huge impact on my
imagination and my developing sexuality. I’m certain my tendencies
toward polyamory can be traced to the Valentine Michael Smith’s
“sharing water”.
For
years, I spent my afternoons sprawled on my bed with nose in a book,
as my mother would say. She would prod me to get up, go outside, get
some fresh air, play with friends. I far preferred the company of the
characters in my most recent read to the kids in my suburban
neighborhood. Sherlock Holmes—Catherine and Heathcliff—Jane Eyre
and Mr. Rochester—Frodo and Gandalf—Captain Nemo—the eponymous
Rebecca in Daphne Du Maurier’s tale and “She” who must be
obeyed, in H. Rider Haggard’s classic—there weren’t enough
hours in the day to spend with them, as far as I was concerned.
Reading let me explore ancient Egypt, classical Greece, medieval
France and Celtic Britain, wandering in both space and time. How
could the backyard or the local mall compete?
I
have vivid recollections of many wonderful books, up until my late
teens. Anorexia really messed up my memory, perhaps due to a lack of
nutrients. Or maybe my mental abilities were impaired by the
anti-depressants I took regularly for several years. Certainly I read
voraciously while I was bouncing around from one hospital or
temporary home to another. What else was I going to do? Dropped out
of college, estranged from my family, suspicious of all the people
who wanted me to eat, torn by anxiety and self-disgust, I took refuge
in books. I hardly recall anything I read, however, though for some
reason I know The Brothers Karamazov was on the list. Or maybe
Crime and Punishment? It’s all a blur.
I
hadn’t really read much erotica until I got involved with the man I
call my master, while I was in grad school. He assigned me various
texts: The Story of O, of course, and Anne Rice’s Beauty
Trilogy, for a start. I discovered Victorian porn, The Pearl,
My Secret Life and Laura, a book I’ve discussed here
in the past which might not be Victorian at all, but which had a
profound emotional and erotic effect on me.
Then
in 1998, I happened on a used copy of Portia da Costa’s debut Black
Lace book, Gemini Heat, which
inspired me to pen my own first novel, and changed my life.
Since
then I’ve consumed enormous quantities of erotica, as a reviewer,
an editor, and just for fun. My reading tastes remain catholic,
however. Usually I’ll have several books in process, at least one
of which will not be erotic. Currently I’m reading The
Echo Maker by Richard Powers, a
literary novel about family and neurophysiology; Carousel
by Aurelia T. Evans, which I guess would be categorized as kinky
erotic horror; Gay L.A.: A History of Sexual Outlaws, Power
Politics and Lipstick Lesbians,
by Lillian Faderman and Stuart Timmons (though I’ve gotten bogged
down in this and haven’t opened it for months); and Sexual
Outsiders: Understanding BDSM Sexualities and Communities,
by David A. Ortmann and Richard A. Sprott. I still adore a solid
science fiction tale; The Wind-Up Girl
by Paolo Baccigalupi and Anathem
by Neal Stephenson are highlights from recent years, enthusiastically
recommended. Well-written historical fiction can still sweep me away,
too, though I was a bit disappointed by my recent read of Hilary
Mantel’s Bring Up the Bodies.
In
short, reading is my first and perhaps my most enduring love. The
pleasure I’ve experienced writing this post, remembering my
favorite books and reliving my first encounters with them, recalls
the secret glow I feel after a night of erotic pleasure. Lovers come
and go—sexual need
fades with age—but books
will always be there, or so I pray.
When
I imagine my future, I see myself, perhaps infirm, perhaps indigent,
even alone, but still reading. Without books, I wonder if life would
be worth living.
