Lady Bird and Coming of Age

 

The end of a year. The beginning of a new one. A strange, magical period of time; when we are still flush with the triumphs and regrets of the previous year, but choose to let go and embrace the coming one. New Years are painfully symbolic. As a whole, mankind turns away from the today’s issues, and looks towards tomorrow. Tomorrow. That mystical golden ideal. Hope springs eternal, and our infatuation with New Year’s is agonising proof of it.
Among fireworks and festivities, milling in raucous crowds or contemplating alone, we unitedly wish that the next year will be better than the last.

It is always an emotionally tumultuous time. You are forced to come to terms with the past , and conduct the painful, but necessary annual review. Here, we recount all the embarrassing phases we went through, and then promptly exorcise them from our memory.
And so, let us proceed with this rather masochistic exercise.

2022 was firstly, very satisfying to say. Twenty-Twenty-Two. It had a quirky alliteration to it, a playfulness.

2022 was the start of the new Roaring Twenties. The Roaring Twenties was an era of joyful extravagance and gleeful luxury after the frugal rationing of World War One. It was the decade of Scott Fitzgerald, and The Great Gatsby. It was sparkling gem of a decade lost between two gritty World Wars and an economic depression. It was the age of jazz, cinema, flappers, and fashion.
2022 was the first breath of fresh air after the chaos of the pandemic and the emotional turmoil of the lockdowns. It was a period of revenge dressing, revenge vacationing and revenge shopping, and basically was a vengeance-fest to envy The Count of Monte Cristo.
2022 was the year we were forced back into schools, away from our comfortable beds, and online “school”. We were forced to relearn basic social skills. Among them, smiling, responding when questioned. Some of us regained the courage to live without masks. Others did not.

The year decidedly did not start with a bang. The numbness and ennui of the pandemic wore on, and we were bored, cynical, and all was passé. I read classic fantasies, packed with warriors, queens and sorcerers, like The Wheel of Time and A Hero Is Born. I pored over vast Bildungsroman novels like The Name of the Wind.
The slow, laborious pace, the astronomical page-count, the never-ending journeys- all matched my lockdown mentality.
On the side, I read standard YA fantasy. I took no joy from the clichéd plots, but voyeuristically watched the protagonists explore new worlds; sweeping, gorgeous deserts, and lush, muddy rain forests. I perused, among others, the rather exasperating An Ember in the Ashes, the mediocre Woven In Moonlight, and We Hunt the Flame.

By May, the travel bans were down, and we were finally unshackled. That summer vacation, I was far from home, and the world seemed much larger, and vastly more interesting. While I eagerly devoured foreign food, and far-away sights, I read short, trendy novels in spare moments. I read the intimate memoir Crying in H-Mart in the same breath as the historical fiction The Seven Husbands of Evelyn Hugo.

After the return to school, it dawned on me that I had missed out, after two years of lockdown. I had to make up for all the drama I missed somehow.

Thus began the regrettable coming-of-age/angsty romance phase of my life. I read A Catcher In the Rye. Nothing more need be said. The literary epitome of fruitless rebellion speaks for itself. And that, was not, in fact, the worst. I read Twilight and Call Me By Your Name. I can say no more.

I read the satires of George Orwell and Terry Pratchett during the half yearlies. Exam season always makes my worldview tend towards nihilistic. I pushed my way through Romeo and Juliet. (The realisation that the famed play was basically Shakespeare’s way of sighing “Teenagers” helped me through it.) I discovered the cruel pleasures of webtoons. (One episode a week? I cannot wait that long. I MUST KNOW NOW!!!!)

The days wore on, and long. Rain fell from turquoise skies and leaves crunched underfoot. There was disenchantment and poetry in the air. I happened to read If We Were Villains. It was an epiphany. I awoke to the sublime beauty of Dark Academia. I discovered The Secret History and The Picture of Dorian Gray. No string of heart emojis, no bundle of love letters, can truly express my feelings for these books.

And then, in this state of ecstasy, I read Wuthering Heights.
I realised, that there is a heaven post cloud nine. It was shockingly easy to read, scandalously easy to get lost in, especially for an older novel. This magnificent tapestry of ardor and violence is fresh after nearly two centuries. In our trite, vapid, era; Wuthering Heights’ passion reverberates right to your bones. Clinically shy, reclusive, Emily Bronte might just have written the greatest story of love and revenge ever told.

December came, and with it, murder mysteries and the works of Alice Feeney. Somehow, the merry season of joy always puts me in the mood for a dark, blood-splattered thriller.
Perhaps there’s a Freudian connection there.

Overall, 2022 was an interesting year. (The ultimate noncommittal response.) Half of what I read seemed to young for me, and the other half too old. But, it was a year of exploration, and there were both glorious summits and dank pitfalls.

And here concludes my recount of last year’s reading.
Now, we hastily turn from the past and look towards the future.

Firstly, I look forward to reading Holly Black’s The Stolen Heir, which will be releasing on 3rd January. I can’t recall any other releases I’m anticipating, except Alecto the Ninth, (whenever Tamsyn Muir sees fit to free me from the suspense).

In my eternal pursuit of sophistication, I have added an agonisingly long list of classics to my to-read pile. (Classics are generally more fun to have read than to

be reading. )
Among them, Jane Austen; the Bronte sisters; Virginia Woolf; and, naturally, Fitzgerald.

I have added Hamlet to my reading pile. (I feel like I shall now be able to relate to the existential-crisis-having eponymous protagonist.)

After reading The Invisible Life Of Addie LaRue, I hope to read more VE Schwab. I want to hear more from Rebecca Roanhorse and Jay Kristoff. I have added Taylor Jenkins Reid and Sally Rooney to the pile. (Which is rapidly becoming less of a pile, more of a teetering tower.)
I have decided to give Sarah J Maas another shot
I will continue to grimly avoid John Green.

But, of course, I will most likely veer wildly away from this list. I shall probably have to scour the electronic shelves of Kindle Unlimited, because I am perpetually impecunious. I shall drift lightly wherever my fancies blow, and wherever booktok steers me. (Hopefully, nowhere near coming-of-age, EVER again.)

Finally, I say: Let us not flip to the end. Let us read on, not knowing whether salvation or heartbreak lies on the next page.

So here’s to 2023. May it have good pacing, a great plot, and a happy ending.