The Magic of Books

Books are magic.

Right now, I’m about one-third through Tad Williams‘ “Memory, Sorrow and Thorn — To Green Angel Tower: Siege”. I read this series two or three times in the German translation, now for the first time I’m reading in English. The last time I read them was quite a while ago, and I forgot how great they are. I just oredered part IV today.

I remember, when I held the English copy of “The Dragonbone Chair” in my hands for the first time a few weeks ago, it was like Christmas come early. It really is one of the greatest fantasy stories of all time, and it’s even better in English (no surprise there, I’m not exactly a fan of translations and only read them if the book was originally written in a language other than German or English.) The author’s language in the books is very poetic.

Anyway, there’s something about a great story well told that’s just… well, magic. How you get to know the characters as if they were real and you’d met them, and how you come to care for each and everyone of them… when the book ends it’s like having to say farewell to old friends. The one book I have read more times than I can count (as a matter of fact, I stopped counting after I read it for the 27th time) is The Lord Of The Rings, and there were times, when after finishing the last page I would turn the book around and start over.

There are other books that captured me with the same kind of magic (although none of them quite as strong as Tolkien’s books): Ralf Isau‘s Neschan trilogy, the Avalon books by Marion Zimmer Bradley, even the Harry Potter books; just to name a few. I don’t know what it is about books, but there is so much life in them that that sometimes it’s hard to believe they are just made-up stories.

If you don’t read, you won’t understand. If you do, there’s no explanation necessary.

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