I LIKE the word “proclivity”. I don’t hear it often enough, but it explains so many things at once. According to the Merriam-Webster thesaurus, it is synonymous with affection, affinity, aptitude, bent, bias, disposition, leaning, partiality, penchant, inclination and tendency.
I used to be able to read anytime, anywhere. Not any more. When I bring a book with me to bed, I can finish only a few pages before my fingers reach out for the bedside lamp and I float off to dreamland.
This routine is repeated the next night, the only difference being I would have forgotten who is who in the book, how they are related and why they are gathered in the country manor house in the first place. Rereading to find the connections is arduous.
I thought that with retirement, I would be able to read War and Peace, cover to cover, several times over. How strange that getting past the newspaper or the occasional magazine has become a great achievement.
I am surrounded by a reading culture. The library is nearby and the librarian will bring in the books that I request if they are not on the shelves. Charity shops and flea markets are overflowing with pre-loved books.
As a child, I would reread my favourite books. So, recently, I purposed myself to set aside every Sunday to read a novel before I miss all the good stuff that is trapped between the pages. It is the chance to reclaim something pleasurable.
Firstly, I revisited Roald Dahl’s books. Last year marks 100 years since the birth of the storyteller. Running though his books are themes of loneliness, abuse, friendship and kindness. The child in me identifies with the unlikely hero or heroine. My favourite is Matilda.
But what next?
I find that my interest in fiction has waned. I’m no longer captivated by plots of mystery or love. I tear through best sellers and they have come up short. In fact, the first 10 pages can tell you how the book will end and how the characters are related. There is a lack of originality in the themes. There is a lack of depth and a feeling that these writers are trying to squeeze in too many modern-day concerns between the covers. These writers are a poor comparison to Charles Dickens or the Bronte sisters.
I’m more attracted to non-fiction books, particularly memoirs, culture and history.
My latest favourite is Elie Wiesel’s Night. All 116 pages of it.
The same can be said of television programmes. Gone are the days when I would wait for serial episodes and the like. Now, I record documentaries or travel pieces and watch them at my leisure, fast-forwarding all the advertisements in between. As for movies, nothing beats the big screen, whether it is Disney’s Polynesian princess Moana carving out her adventure trail in 3D or Tom Hanks following a trail of clues connected to Dante.
Even the taste for food differs. Sweets and chocolates used to entice me as a teen, but now, I prefer anything home-cooked and the more authentic the recipe, the better. I rediscovered an old recipe that I had written down for savoury pumpkin cake where ingredients were measured in kati and tahil! I never understood why my mother liked the miserable-looking bittergourd either, but now, I can snack through crispy bittergourd fries (pavakkai varuval) with relish!
My taste for clothes, too, changes with the seasons. Wouldn’t it be nice to have four wardrobes, one for each season?
With time, our proclivities and prerogatives change and I’m okay with that.
The writer was a lecturer at Universiti Teknologi Mara and now spends her days enjoying life as it is