Novels close to my heart

The first ‘big girl novel’ I read was Charlie and the Chocolate Factory. Following that, I read every single novel for children written by Roald Dahl and I made a vow to myself to never read any book by another author; that would be treason. Evidently, I didn’t stay true to my word. This is a list of my five favourite books of all time…

1. Jane Eyre – Charlotte Brontë

Laws and principles are not for the times when there is no temptation: they are for such moments as this, when body and soul rise in mutiny against their rigour. If at my convenience I might break them, what would be their worth?

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THINGS: An Intimate History

As a child I collected countless things – rocks, marbles, stickers, sea glass – things that seemed so insignificant. A child can place the largest value upon the most mundane of things, something that becomes increasingly hard to grasp as one slips away into adulthood. As an outsider, banished from the imaginative wonderland of childhood, it’s hard to remember the feeling of losing your favourite pebble or toy car, despite their abundance. Why this thing? They’re asked. But does there have to be a reason?

Time passes. Our little trinkets and treasures get lost, stuck behind the couch, under the bed, the inside of the vacuum cleaner. As we begin to grow older, we develop a new sense of what it means to own things. I remember watching TV as a 7-year-old, and being fired with an artillery of obscenely colourful advertisements telling me not only that I wanted it but that I needed it. Some things become exclusive, others useless, some even shameful. Things become a disguise for money and a benchmark for comparison.

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Punto Azul: On Loss

22.04.2015 Junin de Los Andes, Argentina

The icy breath of the mountain bit my fingers and my nose as the dark clouds gathered around the peak. My trusty hiking boots – they had been my mother’s before me – were as old as I was and they treaded over the black volcanic grit with ease. I walked through a tunnel of wispy trees that had moss hanging off the branches like the beard of a weathered man. Through the arc of foliage I could make out the expanses of black rock bared by the wind nearer the summit, until they were covered by the clouds. It had been ten years since I had been there, and it would be a long time before I would be able to return; I implored to the Pillan, under my breath, for the wind to change and uncover the mountain.

As I walked, I remembered when one of the park rangers had told me about the sacrifice that had put the volcano Lanín to sleep. Every mountain has a Pillan, a guardian spirit, who lives at the summit. One day, the youths of the cacique tribe of Huanquimil were hunting near the northern part of the volcano. They caught a deer drinking from a stream and slit its throat, his warm blood flowing over the rocks. In the instant that blade had touched the creature, the ground shook violently and the sound of drums came from beneath their feet. A pillar of smoke, like a black fungus, grew from the top of the volcano until the sun was covered by ashes. The youths ran to the moss-bearded shaman, who scolded them for their foolishness and said the only way to calm the wrath of the Pillan was to sacrifice the youngest daughter of the cacique, beautiful Huifún, in the crater. Qechuan, the youth who loved Huifún, promised to stay by her side and travelled with her to the crater, where he pressed his lips to hers in a final act of love. A thunderous shadow, blacker than the ashes and with eyes of fire, rose from the crater and released a deathly call; the giant condor tore Huifún from Qechuan with his mighty talons. He flew to the centre of the fuming crater and released the girl into the fire. Qechuan kneeled, distraught, at the edge of the crater, and snow began to fall lightly upon his trembling shoulders. From that day, every hundred years, the Pillan of Volcan Lanín sent his Condor to make a sacrifice, tearing someone who was loved away from the Earth.

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