We live in a 24/7 saturation bombing from enervated mass media and a bogus manufactured popular culture. If you don't read you will likely be watching telly, or on the computer, or listening to fake music from puppet-show bands.
When the families I knew in my northern textile town didn't read -- and they didn't -- they were in the brass band, or in the choir, telling their own stories down the pub or on the greyhound track, finding the quiet pleasure of mending kit or working the allotment, or walking for miles in the Pennines. I am not glamorising this working-class life; it was hard and short, and I could not stay there and I would not want it back. But it had a genuine culture of its own -- roots up --and it was not force-fed adverts, consumerism and The X Factor.
The Living Mountain is the need to be physical, to be in the body, and to let the senses and the soul work in harmony with the mind. This seems a long way from lying in bed and reading a book. But it isn't far at all.
Reading stills the body for a while, allowing rest without torpor and quiet without passivity. Reading is not a passive act. Engaged in the book, in company with the writer, the mind can roam where it will. Such freedom to roam reminds us that body and mind need exercise and activity, and that neither the mind nor the body can cope with confinement. And if the body has to cope with confinement, then all the more reason to have developed a mind that knows how to roam.
Jeanette Winterson, from "A Bed. A Book. A Mountain.," the afterward to Nan Shepherd's The Living Mountain
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