For years, my love of reading lay dormant, buried beneath the weight of everyday life. The stories that once fueled my imagination had become distant memories, replaced by the hum of responsibilities and the static of a mind too tired to dream. But then, as with so many things, Paris happened.
It was my first visit, and I wandered the city in a state of blissful disarray, losing myself in the winding streets, sunlit boulevards, and the quiet hum of everyday Parisian life. The bookshops called to me from every corner—tiny, enchanting sanctuaries filled with the scent of paper, dust, and the whispers of a thousand untold stories. I spent hours in these places, running my fingers over the spines of novels, feeling a faint, familiar tug at my heart. It was as if Paris knew exactly what I needed before I did. The city, in all its magic, had led me back to words.
I found myself lost in the stacks, each shop a world unto itself, with creaking floors and shelves that reached toward the ceiling. Time moved differently there, slowed down by the weight of so many lives lived on paper. In the quiet corners of Shakespeare and Company, beneath the watchful eyes of literary ghosts, I felt a spark of something I thought I had lost forever. I picked up books with covers that promised escape, stories that spoke of heartbreak, hope, and the human condition. And as I flipped through their pages, I felt the walls I had built around myself begin to crumble.
Books like Bonjour Tristesse, The Paris Novel, The Artist’s Way, and Educated became my companions. They brought me back into the worlds of others, inviting me to walk in their shoes, feel their pain, and rejoice in their victories. I would sit in cafes with a book in my lap, letting the words transport me far from my own thoughts, lost in someone else’s story. The rhythmic clinking of cups and soft conversations around me faded into the background as I turned each page, feeling a little more like myself again.
I had forgotten how healing it could be to lose myself in the pages of a book. To let the worries of my own life dissolve, if only for a while, into the rich narratives of others. I read in gardens, on park benches, in quiet cafes, and beneath the soft glow of my bedside lamp, rediscovering the joy of diving headfirst into a story. Paris had not just given me back my love for reading; it had given me back a piece of myself.
A Glimpse at the Stories That Found Me:
Bonjour Tristesse by Françoise Sagan: A tale of youth and recklessness, this novella captures the languid charm of a French summer and the complexities of desire. Through the eyes of a young girl, it explores the thin line between innocence and the awakening of darker emotions, painting a picture that is both beautiful and haunting.
The Paris Novel by Ruth Reichl: A love letter to the city itself, this book is a rich tapestry of Parisian life, weaving together stories of lovers, dreamers, and the city's own enduring spirit. It’s a novel that celebrates the city’s ability to inspire, break hearts, and heal, all within the span of its bustling, iconic streets.
The Artist’s Way by Julia Cameron: More than just a book, it’s a guide to rediscovering creativity, healing through art, and breaking free from self-imposed limits. It speaks to anyone feeling stuck, lost, or in need of a creative rebirth, offering tools to reconnect with the artist within.
Educated by Tara Westover: A gripping memoir of resilience, Educated tells the story of a woman’s journey from an isolated, survivalist upbringing to earning a PhD from Cambridge University. It’s a powerful reminder of the strength of the human spirit and the transformative power of education and self-discovery.
Each of these books found me at just the right time, whispering truths I needed to hear and guiding me gently back to a love that I had almost forgotten. As I turned the last page of each story, I was reminded of why I fell in love with reading in the first place—because within those pages, we can find pieces of ourselves, bits of truth, and the courage to dream again.