Hungry for The Hunger Games

When the Twilight series first gained popularity, I resisted reading it for a long time. I am not sure why I did that.  I seem to recall thinking it couldn’t possibly be as good as everyone was saying it was and I didn’t want to be disappointed.  Eric even bought me the hardcover box set for Christmas that year but it just sat for months, still in its wrapping, on the bookshelf. At some point I put my back out and I was out of commission for at least a week.  I decided to pick up the first book and give it a try. Well, I spent the next two weeks completely ignoring everyone in my family and having some sort of creepy relationship with Edward (he didn’t return my affections). I loved it. I couldn’t get enough of it. And when it was over, I was devastated.

I didn’t wait so long this time around. Every student in my class has had their nose buried in The Hunger Games for the last few months.  They are going crazy for it. Even the ones that hate to read. I just inhaled the first book and I can’t wait to see the movie and read the rest of the series.

I read other books too.  Books intended for adults about adult situations. But why are so many of us (especially women) going crazy for books written about kids at least half our age?  I think (I’m just thinking about this now for the first time) there is just something so appealing about a book that reminds us of what it feels like to be young.  A book that takes us back to a time when we didn’t know (or care) about adult situations.  A book that reminds of us of what ‘young’ love feels like.

Indeed there is nothing quite as delightful as getting lost in my youth, be it with vampires who want to marry me (or kill me) or tributes (who want to marry me or kill me).  I am not ashamed to love the same books as the twelve and thirteen year olds I teach. It bridges the gap between their lives and a life I once had that wasn’t so different from theirs.  When I am done with The Hunger Games series, I’ll pick up a complicated and sophisticated adult novel just to make sure I haven’t completely lost my ability to read mature writing or have my mind wander among the world of adults. 

Henry James, a nineteenth century writer (Portrait of a Lady), was disgusted, even then, of the idea of adults reading literature intended for children. He believed literature should be complicated and push our cognitive limits. Sometimes, after a long day at work and a busy night at home with the kids, I don’t want to have to think too much when I read.  James would be ashamed of us all but I don’t really care. 

All literature can be celebrated in its own right. It doesn’t have to be hard to read to be good to read. On this dark and rainy night, I can’t wait to crawl into bed with Peeta – I mean Catching Fire - and get lost in the world of Panem. I’ll catch up with Portrait of a Lady some other time.