I’m not much of a novel reader. Films on the other hand I love, not indiscriminately, not like I’ll begin a film and watch it till the end just because I began. No.
Before the pandemic, Friday evenings were my movie-night. When a new movie opened, one that I had been tracking and waiting for, the excitement, the anticipation, the popcorn, the voluptuous screen were sheer pleasure.
On Netflix, I never really feel the same, not quite, about watching a movie. As for series, the first episode or two either spits me out in boredom, or sucks me in so tightly that I compulsively watch episode after episode till the end. It’s exhausting.
There are evenings though, when I crave something quiet, a tête-à-tête with an interesting other, a still space of linear words on a page, no visual and auditory stimulation. That’s when I reach for a novel or essay, for an intimate conversation, a story that charms me into another world, away from mine.