In the Northern Hemisphere, astronomers mark the beginning of spring on the date of the spring equinox. This year, it falls on the 20th of March. For Oxonians, spring begins in our liminal space, the strange weeks that fill our time between the end of Hilary term and the start of Trinity term. Despite leaving Oxford, some of us remain busy bees, revising away for collections or finishing dissertations. Others among us, despite having reading lists that are long enough to resemble shopping lists, are horrifically bored, burnt-out, and unable to look at anything resembling term-time work without feeling a little bit queasy. Although it is marketed to us as the time for new beginnings, spring can easily pass us by, all of us so desperate for summer that we charge through March and April without a second glance.
While I, too, long for the warm weather that summer (sometimes) provides, spring is my favourite season and is severely underrated. I love it, not solely for its pink and yellow petals that fill my camera roll or the excuse it grants me to unfold my summer dresses and dungarees, but for its sheer reading potential. Summer is for lucrative lick-your-fingers romances, and winter all but possesses the fireplace mystery market. Spring and autumn are just too fleeting to wholly claim certain genres, and therefore every year holds the possibility of something new. Spring is especially unique as, in autumn, readers may find themselves returning to the nostalgic tenderness of the back-to-school narrative, squeezing in a read or two before winter takes hold. Spring lacks this definition, its potential, therefore, joyfully untapped and free for individual interpretation.
Upon coming home for the Hilary vacation, I returned to my childhood bedroom. It was in what can only be described as a state of chaos. I am an English student and have been collecting books since I was 13. It shows. Almost every inch of my room is covered in a paperback, a hardback, or the DVD of the film adaptation of my favourite book. Bookmarks are everywhere, reading journals sit precariously balanced on every edge, and, as I stood in the doorway, I silently cursed my January self for leaving my room like this.
In the name of spring cleaning, I sat down and decided to dedicate the following minutes, hours, and days to sorting my books, promising to keep only those that brought memories of a happy reading experience to mind. Despite being a self-proclaimed bookworm, I found that I hadn’t actually read many of them. Some were sequels I’d spent weeks waiting for, only for the special-edition hardbacks to accumulate dust behind books I had ordered for university classes. Some were classics I had loved the idea of reading, but their spines were ultimately left unbroken when I struggled with the language, the words left unannotated, unfelt. I found books that family members had recommended, had excitedly shared with the intention of communal discussion, simply waiting – the clearest signifier that the previous delight I took from reading had crumbled. Enough was enough. If spring was the time for new beginnings, I would begin again, too. Starting with my bookshelf.
Choosing to do an English degree as an avid reader can lead your love of reading to become irrevocably intertwined with stressful deadlines and job applications. It is easy to become distanced from the hobby, rejecting it over breaks in favour of anything else. My goal every new year is to fall back in love with reading. While January me certainly tried her best, it was this spring that I saw my resolution begin to take effect. I listened – because, yes, audiobooks do count! – to Jane Austen’s Northanger Abbey as I browsed bookshops, pausing to take pictures of the poetry anthology I thought my best friend would enjoy. I missed my stop on the sun-drenched bus because I was so engrossed in the final pages of a play I was reading for pleasure. I finished the final chapter of my favourite comic – the one I had been reading since I was fourteen – tucked up in bed, birdsong quiet outside my bedroom window.
Yet in this process, I often overlook the value of returning to how I first practised the art. With friends and family, squeezed between commuters on the bus, under the covers with a flashlight, stealing moments everywhere. When I was younger, I would carry my favourite books with me to school, not to read but to hold, a weight that kept me grounded as I navigated life as a 15-year-old girl. Before reading was productive or competitive, it was a haven, a comfort I yearn for now more than ever as I enter my twenties. Spring lacks a to-do list, lacks a checkbox of books to read before you miss their seasonal window, and it is kinder that way, more welcoming.
Spring is often swallowed in one quick gulp, dainty blossoms on trees appearing for what seems like milliseconds before waxy leaves take their place. For many of us, spring is small. It is a soft yawn, the world waking up and displaying a swift snippet of what’s to come in summer. Before spring leaves us behind for another year, I implore you to make reading a part of this transitional jubilation, a part of the first hike or the first ice cream. The assigned genre is anything that has gathered dust on your bookshelf or TBR, because reading is more joyful when the rules are bent, and you follow your own enjoyment.
Or, as Jane Austen’s bookish heroine Catherine Moreland would say: “Oh! I am delighted with the book! I should like to spend my whole life in reading it.”
