Reading practice 11
Just recently, I visited the House of the Seven Gables, in Salem, Massachusetts. Up until the moment I looked through my travel guide, I hadn't even known that there was an actual house, much less that it was in Salem. We had intended only to visit the Salem Witch Memorials, but since I've been a Nathaniel Hawthorne fan since junior high, a side trip to the building that had inspired one of his greatest works seemed to be in order.
Let me back up a bit to explain. Ever since I was a little girl, I've loved to read. Classics, in particular, thrilled me, taking me back in time to worlds that hadn't existed for hundreds of years. I knew, of course, that real people wrote these books, but somehow the authors didn't interest me very much. The whole point of reading was to explore other realities6, and while I had a great deal of respect for anyone who could create those worlds, their life stories didn't hold much appeal. In college, I opted to major in literature, assuming that this would involve reading scores of wonderful books, which it did. It also meant, however, spending hours, days, and weeks studying2 the people behind the books. Completing my professors' assignments, I felt more like a detective than a reader, scouring personal letters for hints of relationship problems, familial tragedies, or even fond memories that seemed reminiscent of storylines. I would analyze how authors' childhood traumas5 might have influenced their writing, and I would try to discover any hidden secrets and vices. In inspired moments, I felt the advantage of this depth of knowledge—a piece that had been opaque to me would suddenly open up, as I grasped the personal truth the author was trying to convey. More often, though, I found myself losing sight of the books in the forest of biographical details.
By the time I graduated, I was heartily sick of the whole business. Casting aside all previous plans of continued study, I gave away or sold all of my textbooks, keeping only a few of my favorite books for pleasure reading. Over the years, I regressed to my natural habits—when I read, I did so with blinders on. My focus was solely on the book itself, and I gave no thought to the writer, aside from admiration for his or her skill. Reading this way was more enjoyable, and with no professors watching, I was free to do as I pleased.
It was in this frame of mind that I learned of the existence of the actual House of the Seven Gables, so my enthusiasm had more to do with visiting a site featured in one of my favorite books3 than with visiting the former home of a famous author. We found the house, parked the car, and walked in. The woman staffing the entrance desk informed us that visitors were allowed only as part of a tour. Although my plans had not included being herded through a rambling old house, I acceded9 and the tickets were duly purchased. As we waited for the tour to begin, we wandered through the gardens, which were desolate during the winter months. Several buildings were clustered around the central garden area, and each structure had a sign explaining its historical relevance. The main building had been the original inspiration for The House of the Seven Gables, another a counting house7, and another the home of Nathaniel Hawthorne's family. As I gazed at the signs, a bit confused, having assumed that Hawthorne had lived in the main house, our guide arrived and ushered us all indoors.
For the next hour, we were inundated with facts about Nathaniel Hawthorne's life. We learned that he had not, in fact, lived in the famous house. His family had struggled financially, and even the small house that bore his name on a plaque had ultimately proven too expensive. The guide told us about Hawthorne's troubled youth, the untimely death of his father, his psychological battles, and his ultimate redemption through marriage with a woman he loved deeply. As I listened, for the first time I began to see Nathaniel Hawthorne not just as a talented writer but as a real person with a life as rich and complicated as my own. Maybe it was visiting his home, maybe it was hearing the right words at the right moment, but whatever the cause, something clicked. The writer's personal dossier and his literary work no longer seemed to contribute to a reader's appreciation of the author's works1, but instead blended seamlessly into a varicolored, complex, and beautiful tapestry. The work itself is indeed the frame8, but when we weave the threads of the author's life around that base, we are able to see the interactions between text and author, as they join to create a pattern more complete than either would be on its own45.
