After I was caught returning at dawn from one such late-night escapade, my worried mother thoroughly interrogated me regarding every drug teenagers take, never suspecting that the most intoxicating thing I’d experienced, by far, was the volume of romantic poetry she’d handed me the previous week.

Paul Kalanithi, When Breath Becomes Air

One of my most vivid high school memories comes from a Friday afternoon with my literature teacher. School had just finished for the week and many of my peers were heading home, exhausted from two periods of literature class, but I stayed behind with a few others to ask a question regarding an upcoming assignment. As I was waiting in line, I overheard a question posed by a classmate to the teacher:

“Sir, what’s the most intoxicated you’ve ever been?”

While I thought this was somewhat inappropriate, my teacher laughed in response and smiled broadly.

“Believe it or not, my greatest levels of intoxication have never been from alcohol, but from literature.”

Those who overheard this comment erupted in hysteria, perhaps delighted by how well our teacher fit the book-loving, nerdy stereotype of a literature teacher. He had big, blue eyes under thin-rimmed, circular glasses and preferred turtle-neck sweaters and leather boots over the standard teaching attire of shirts and sneakers. I remember staring in disbelief by what I’d just heard. Being intoxicated on literature? In the modern era, there’s no place for books, I thought. The same quality of information can be found in more modern forms of technology such as YouTube videos or podcasts. The teacher’s comment was ridiculous, surely a joke. Either that, or he was just crazy.

For a while, I didn’t think much of this experience. But recently, I’ve begun to read more, thanks to being recommended some fantastic books and with the leisure of extra time freed up by the pandemic. And slowly, I’m beginning to understand what my wide-eyed literature teacher said with a grin all those years ago.

Good literature is hypnotising. They are often written in a way that borders on the edge of familiarity and unfamiliarity, inviting you to leave the world you think yourself to be in and to step inside another. And if you so dare to, the author then guides you step by step into this new world, revealing mundane ideas around you in extraordinary ways, forcing you to question the worldviews and narratives you hold. This can be dangerous, for when you find yourself back in reality, it can be disorienting on a systemic level.

Currently, I’m working through Life of Pi. It’s a beautiful book, with awe-inspiring portrayals of nature and humanity, scattered with golden nuggets on spirituality throughout. One afternoon, I sat down planning to read for 30 minutes, followed by some Uni work. The book ended up holding me for 2 hours, only letting me go due to my fatigue. When I finally put Life of Pi down, I sat up from my couch and walked around the house for 10 minutes in a daze.

The next morning, now acutely aware of the dangers of Life of Pi, I started reading The Three-Body Problem, one of the most renowned sci-fi works of the century, thinking I would fare better. Like the day before, the plan was to read for 30 minutes max, but I ended up spending the whole morning and the rest of the afternoon immersed in it. When I put the book down, my surroundings now dark, I was heavily intoxicated. My world was spinning, I wasn’t sure where I was and I imagine if my housemate asked me for my name, I would’ve hesitated before answering, unable to comprehend the question. It was ridiculous.

Literature, it seems I’ve underestimated you. The messages you hide cannot be compared to knowledge like any other, for the only way to uncover your secrets requires a departure from this world, a departure so visceral that time and space lose meaning in light of your potency. It’s clear without a doubt now: you are intoxicating.