“If the moralists ask us how we can justify our love of reading, we can make use of some such excuse as this. But if we are honest, we know that no such excuse is needed. It is true that we get nothing whatsoever except pleasure from reading; it is true that the wisest of us is unable to say what that pleasure may be. But that pleasure—mysterious, unknown, useless as it is—is enough.”
from Virginia Woolf’s “How Should One Read a Book?”
I’m sitting at my desk with a scarf over my legs, the temperature’s dropped, the days are short, and a light dusting of frost covers the bottom half of every window, like winter’s curtains scurrying up the glass. Every lamp in the living room is on and it isn’t quite dinnertime, the days are dark and push you to fold in on yourself come five o’clock. The keyboard’s warm to the touch as I type this and I rest my palms on either side of the trackpad as I reread, avoiding the cool surface of my desk. I relish this time of year and as cold as I might be right now, I hold the darkness and the single digit temperatures near before the warmer seasons pry them away with glistening sunlit hands.
I can’t go on without acknowledging that it’s a violent time of year, though—the wind is sharp, the air numbs, and those seemingly beautiful snowflakes nibble at the skin. It is a privilege to enjoy the winter—a privilege to have a lamp and a desk, to have a scarf over one’s legs, to have a warm keyboard under one’s fingers, and to have a light in the darkest of months.
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Every year in early January I flip through my reading journal. It has become somewhat of a ritual to start the new year by scanning the pages that list all the books I read over the last twelve months. Every book is marked by its title, its author, and the month in which it was read. As I follow each line of the notebook, I inevitably recall specific moments—I was sitting there when I read that, I let the tea go cold when I read that one, and I needed a moment of silence when that story ended. While I might not remember the protagonist’s surname or will most likely forget certain details of the plot, I always remember how a story made me feel, from the beginning, through to the middle, and into the end. Those feelings are what make some titles jump out at me more than others during this yearly review. Of the forty books I read in 2022, there are five that still linger in my mind, my memories of each of them still sparkle so clearly.
In early January of 2022, I waited anxiously for my copy of Caleb Azumah Nelson’s Open Water, picking it up at the post office and starting it that very same day. I read it in two sittings, consumed by the writing, the poetry, and the love poured into every page, convinced that it was the most perfect debut novel I had ever read and will ever read—I still believe this.
In February, I read Virginia Woolf’s A Room of One’s Own, a work that pushed me down a rabbit hole of Woolf’s life and writing—it’s been a long and enjoyable fall! As I read this slim volume, I knew that no matter where she wandered, whether that be through an Oxbridge college, or in fiction, essays, letters, and diary entries, I’d follow close behind, and she’s never led me astray.
Nearing the end of winter, I read Domenico Starnone’s Trust, a work so new to me and so filled with tension that I eagerly pushed it into as many readers’ hands as possible. It was my introduction to Italian literature, to Starnone’s writing, and to Jhumpa Lahiri as a translator, and what a translator she is! In July, I sought out Lahiri’s Translating Myself and Others, a collection of essays that opened and investigated both the art and the act of translation from personal, historical, and political perspectives. These intimate and insightful essays left me with a whole new appreciation for translations and their ever important translators!
In early October, I was dreadfully ill with a cold and spent three days in my reading chair with Maggie O’Farrell’s The Marriage Portrait. While surrounded by cups of tea, lozenges, and tissues, I was in Italy with Lucrezia de Medici and completely absorbed in O’Farrell’s writing. For the first time, I was somewhat grateful for a cold as I could fully immerse myself in the novel, uninterrupted and entirely enchanted.
I started writing this post a few weeks ago and it now seems that most of January has slipped away. Beginnings are odd and difficult to breathe into, and while I haven’t quite found my seat in 2023, I am certain there will be some good reads, which really are the best of travel companions!
Sydney K Erickson 
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