The mysterious beauty of reading
I came late into reading. My early years were spent in San Isidro, a suburb of Lima, Peru. Loved by my family and my niñera Teresa, I lived an a world of imagination and play. School was just an interruption within my day. No pressure was put upon and even in the school setting, I only remember the gentleness of a young nun, guiding me through lessons. There were little ribbons handed out for good behavior and such. I remember being fascinated by the colors and the sheen of the satin. My eyes were hungry little hunters, always on the prowl for the next saturated color or shimmering reflection of light. Most of my early memories are of indigo dusk shaded streets , white stucco walls lit up and hosting the graceful shadows of large leaves and dancing birds and the cornflower blue skies of the Andes mountains under which the native women worked their looms, layering each richly pigmented stripe, one after another. Later in my life, I recognize...