Books have played a major role in my life for as long as I can remember. They have been my friends in times of loneliness and my solace in times of suffering. They have accompanied my on every holiday and their pages hold the treasured memories of my youth. So it was rather unnerving earlier in the year to find that I had lost the desire to pick up a book and I virtually stopped reading.
The reasons for this still remain unclear. The logical explanation of course is that as I am surrounded by books all day at school, and as I read constantly for my work and this website, I finally became overwhelmed by the surfeit of books in my life. Perhaps like the chef who comes home and makes a simple sandwich for dinner or the plumber who can’t be bothered to change a leaking tap, this teacher librarian finally came home and decided she couldn’t bear to open the cover of yet another book.
Strictly speaking, I did actually open the cover of a book. Many books. I even started reading numerous books. The trouble was I could not develop the slightest interest in any book, leaving countless novels discarded, unfinished and heartbroken. Like a shallow flirt I casually read a few chapters before tossing each and every book aside. Alarmingly, the number of books I discarded began to outnumber the books I actually finished reading.
There were a couple of successes. In September I read and finished The Reluctant Hallelujah (you can read the review here). In the October school holidays I read Anna Karenina, but this was no true victory. I first read Tolstoy’s masterpiece some twenty years ago so re-reading it was more like catching up with an old friend rather than forging a new relationship. For just as there is no need to establish an old friend’s background and history at a reunion, the same can be said of a re-read: the plot, characters, language and even the rhythm are stored somewhere in the recesses of your reading past. Reading and finishing Anna was a hollow victory; meanwhile the pile of books I began and failed to finish kept on growing.
Beginning to despair, I turned to an as yet unread author and page by page my dejection was cautiously transformed into elation. Success! Within a couple of a chapters I was thoroughly hooked. With eager joy I began to look for stolen moments in my day when I could sneak away with my new friend and at night I read far too late, eagerly turning the pages to inhale more of the story. And when I eventually turned the last page of the book, I felt bereft and mourned the loss of my latest literary companion.
The bewitching book that broke my reading drought was Kate Morton’s The Secret Keeper.
Kate Morton is an Australian author who has had international success beginning with The Shifting Fog (also known as The House at Riverton). The Secret Keeper is best described as historical mystery, alternating between the story of famous actor Laurel Nicholson in 2011 and the life of her mother during the Blitz in 1941. Despite the historical label, Morton does not weigh the story down with historical detail; the perfectly researched history simply adds a natural supportive structure to the narrative. And the narrative is superb.
I became absorbed in the intertwined lives of the characters and the secret which is introduced early in the piece. About two-thirds of the way in I thought I had solved the mystery, but to my delight I was totally wrong and the twist was surprising yet totally satisfying, allowing all the pieces to fall into logical and satisfying place.
Morton is a discerning and gifted writer who cleverly unravels the plot, piece by piece, displaying an astute insight into the foibles of the human character and the secrets hidden deeply in the past of all families. This was my first taste of the sublime Ms Morton’s talent, and it has whetted my appetite for more.
Bless you, Kate Morton for breaking my reading drought.