Books

I grew up amongst books. They were always alive for me. They helped me sleep, they helped cry and they helped me be. I remember my old town during cold, heavy winter nights… The town was asleep and I was reading stories out laud. It smelled like snow, tea and fresh bread. It smelled like the love of my grandparents and it felt incredibly safe in the cold house with thick stone walls. The darkness was surrounding us, but the snow was light… I was sitting by the stove reading “Alone in the world” by Hector Malot.

Remy, the hero of my childhood. The orphan boy who travelled France together with an artist ambulant. The orphan who lived a harder life than me, the boy who didn’t have the love I had, but who found his mother and a love that I didn’t know. I read that book at least 50 times. I cried and laughed and felt incredibly lucky. It could have been worse. I could have been Remy…

Then, there were “The three musketeers” by Alexandre Dumas. Oh, I remember I was in love with Athos. Everyone I knew loved d’Artagnan, but I was always Athos. The older one, the mature one, the serious and the sad, but the one that was always there. The unselfish one. The one that kept the pain hidden deep inside a smile, the one that kept feeling undeserving of happiness.

And then, there were hundreds of other books, poetry, fiction, biography, historical novel, and motivational books, books that cried with me, books that I kept hidden, books that I carried with me everywhere I went, serious books, and even few funny ones. I have always gone back to Remy and Athos, though. They are me…