What and why

To anyone who asks, the answer is: “My favourite book is Milton’s Paradise Lost.”
 
And to most people who then ask, “why?”
 
Because every few years I read it again. Because every time I read it, I only grin, but I want to shout (And what else is not to be overcome?), cry (The mind is its own place.) and jump (Awake, arise or be forever fall’n.). Because before I could read English, I collected translated editions and, comparing them, I tried to grasp at the meaning – essence – light I felt blazing through the pages.
 
So, see, these are the reasons.
 
All valid reasons, all reasons I would give to anyone who asks.
 
But, if you want to know the truth, if you are the one asking – the reason I give myself – is a picture.
 
My brother took it. He  was 13 and obsessed with cameras. I was 16 and all I did was read. We were in our grandfather’s house, the one with blood-red wet walls that always gave us the creeps. I was wearing our other grandfather’s sweater, the one with a sage-green collar that always reminded me of a kimono. My brother was sitting on the old persian rug. I was sitting on the old rocking chair.
 
The sun was outside the window. I was inside the book.
 
“Look here!” my brother called.
 
“Click”, went the camera.
 
“And?” I asked.
 
He looked down at the screen, widened his eyes, let out a soft: “Oh.”
 
I was there. In that one picture.
 
My whole soul was there.
 
In the grin on my lips.
 
In the light blazing in my eyes.
 
And in my hand, Decio Pettoello’s 1950 translation of Milton’s Paradise Lost.
 
More than 10 years have passed. When I think of who I am, I think of that picture. I don’t think it will ever change.
 
So, see, these are the answers.
 
What? Milton’s Paradise Lost.
 
Why? My brother took a picture once.