By neuropoeta on Skatehive
A few days ago, my teenage daughter asked me a simple yet profound question: Mom, what were the first books you read that you loved the most? >I fell silent for a few seconds, looking at the spines of the books on the shelf, and suddenly, without meaning to, that borrowed book I fell in love with during my teenage years came to mind: Pride and Prejudice by Jane Austen. I was fourteen or fifteen, and my literary interests were just beginning to awaken. I devoured whatever fell into my hands, but I had not yet found that story that makes you forget you exist until this novel arrived. I remember the yellowish edition a friend lent me, its pages soft from so much use. I sat in a corner of our living room one Saturday morning, and before I knew it, night had fallen. What captivated me so much? It was not just the story of Elizabeth Bennet and Mr. Darcy. It was more the way Austen spoke about me without knowing me, about that awkward and wonderful mix that is being a teenager, believing you