Book Worm

05 November 2005 08:59 Renée book worm

The Time Traveler's Wife I take my seat on the S-Bahn in preparation for my 30 minute journey into town, guiltily pull the new English-language book out of my purse instead of the German one that I have less than a hundred pages to finish, open the cover to page one, and begin to read. I quickly scan the first paragraph and determine that I am intrigued enough to continue, so I settle back and begin to read The Time Traveler’s Wife by Audrey Niffenegger.

At first the story is merely good, but by the time that I faintly realize that the next stop is my stop I am quite engaged. I put the book back in my purse, disembark from the train, and spend the next couple of hours running my errands.

Eventually I decide it is time to go home and proceed to the station to wait for the train that will return me to my little village outside of Munich. I have about ten minutes before my train arrives, so while I wait I peer into my packages and am satisfied that I have purchased all the items that were on my list. I think that since I started the English book on the way into town, I should be good and read the German book on the way home. But there are still about eight minutes before my train comes and because I must concentrate so hard to read German, obviously not enough time to properly continue reading it.

Therefore, I choose The Time Traveler’s Wife instead, thinking that once I get settled on the train I will replace it with the German book. Seven minutes and 59 seconds later when the train pulls into the station the German book has been forgotten. Niffenegger’s story has my full attention and I don’t even mark my place as I walk to the train: I keep reading and only glance up to verify that I am not about to trip when I embark.

I sit down, hastily arrange my packages, and am quickly reimmersed in Henry and Clare’s story. The journey home is strangely silent and the electronic voice that announces the stops along the way seems tinny and far away. The train makes its stops one after the other, but I am completely oblivious as to how many we have made because I am greedily turning page after page as I follow Henry as he drops from one time into another.

The train stops and seems to be briefly suspended in time. Curious, I glance up and suddenly realize that I have reached my stop. With the book still wide open, I hurriedly finish my sentence as I gather my things and disembark seconds before the train continues on its way.

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