Comfort Reads:
A cold, stormy day; a pot of tea; a snoozing cat; and a good book. Happiness.
By Thio Isobel Moss
A few months ago, one of my relatives experienced some unexpected health issues. My extended family rallies in situations like that, and wanting to do my part, I put Blind Spot on hold and volunteered to stay with her for a few days — until things settled down.
My offer was accepted and, since her house was already full, I stayed in a nearby guest house, out in the middle of nowhere, where the darkness tries to smother you at night.
It was quite a nice little house. I even made a few sketches of it — my dream house has much the same layout. However, I am unused to having an entire house to myself; I am unused to country living, and particularly country nights; and I am an imaginative person. It’s an unfortunate combination at times.
With so much unfamiliar, I decided to reread a favorite: Burn for Me by Ilona Andrews. It helped — like pulling on an old, comfy sweater on a stressful day. Best of all, if I finished it quickly, there were six more books in the series waiting for me. It kept me company through the first night, and the second. By the third, I’d made friends with the house, and it didn’t seem quite so lonely.
There are certain authors I return to regularly, and not always out of a need for comfort:
Ilona Andrews
Vanessa Nelson
J.R.R. Tolkien
C.S. Lewis
Agatha Christie
Deanna Raybourn
Rhys Bowen
Jules Verne
Jane Austen
Elizabeth Gaskell
Alexander Dumas
E. M. Forster
Blue Balliett
Shel Silverstein
Dodie Smith (I Capture the Castle)
E. B. White
Edith Nesbit
L. M. Montgomery
Frances Hodgson Burnett
Louisa May Alcott
Shakespeare
I make no bones about admitting that I still read children’s stories. They are old friends, and some of my earliest inspirations. I’m also of a peculiar temperament: when a craving is particularly acute, after rereading or rewatching a favorite, if the need remains unmet, I will immediately reread or rewatch it again. You have no idea how this has irritated both friends and family.
Because this is a list of comfort reads — and I’m not even scratching the surface — many of the names here are familiar ones. Others, however, are conspicuously absent. Charlotte Brontë makes me weep — not a few tears, but a deluge. And while I’ve enjoyed Emily Brontë’s work, it affects me rather like listening to German opera: I understand some of the words and am moved by the emotion, but most of it doesn’t make sense to me.
I can’t locate the exact quote, but Charlotte Brontë once said of Jane Austen that “she stirs you with nothing,” or something similar, criticizing what she saw as a lack of emotion and passion. It may be controversial, but I consider evoking a genuine emotional response in a reader — without resorting to unbridled hedonism or selfish behavior — the work of a master.
In any case, neither Rochester nor Heathcliff have ever brought me comfort, though they have challenged me.
But that’s a list for a different day.
