Эссе "Книги в моей жизни"

I and my brother like to disclose our ideas about the books we have read. One day we decided to define who can read more books for a month. I didn’t let me jump to read a book, but my brother took it seriously. He read and read and I was ashamed more and more. I read not any book.

It was a summer evening. Our dad had a rest on the sofa. My brother came home after the party. Dad asked him about the party. Then they began to talk about our father’s childhood. He told us about their family custom to read the books and then share their thoughts at what they read. Their conversation was so exciting! They smiled, argued, and discussed something that I didn’t know. And I was silent. It was so offending not to take part in their discussion. I didn’t know the stories and the writers they talked about. They seemed to be happy. They were happy without me. All night I was crying. In the morning I get up and without having breakfast I ran in the library. I remembered the books my dad and my brother discussed. I read them.

Our evenings are the same: we have a rest on our favourite sofa in front of TV-set. But none of us watch it. We smile, argue, and discuss the book we have read. And our conversation is so exciting!

I think I can manage. Such a fascinating walking is my preference.

Reading is to my liking. It seems to me that reading is just like a forest with a lot of trees. You walk on its paths and come into the heart of the forest. You want to reach it because it’s so attractive and curiously.