Today I have been finishing the second of the assessment tasks set my my Italian teacher. This one is a test of writing skills. We have been asked to write about a topic of our own choice, and I elected to do something on what I read and why. It has been an interesting exercise, but it has set me thinking.
As a child I received almost no guidance whatsoever about reading from within the family. Other members of the family read very little, and I have developed my preferences over time and partly with encouragement by friends and colleagues, but partly under my own steam. Over dinner tonight I was reflecting also on the way in which my tastes in art and music might have developed, and I came to much the same conclusion. Other members of the family (with the exception of one of my brothers) were almost completely indifferent to both painting and music.
I inherited several things from my parents, but not a library, no recorded music, and only one painting.* Given this lack of stimulation in my childhood past, I can’t help wondering what might have been the origins of my own commitment to art, regular enjoyment of music, and avid reading. What we become is surely a profound mystery, to which the only sensible question is, “How on earth did that happen?”
*My father was a Baptist minister, and he was given a picture of one of his churches painted by one member of his congregation.