Smitten

When was the last time you were smitten?

My journey today with that word began when the capable moderator of a writer's workshop passed around an essay on reading by Vladimir Nabokov as a prelude to a stunning Billy Collins poem entitled Books, which she then distributed and read to us. Though I was familiar with the poem, it floored me anew. You would be right in saying I was smitten, although the word did not occur to me that moment. 

No matter. Because with Nabokov's wisdom and Collins's majesty still igniting me, the moderator then asked us to highlight words, phrases, or sentences from the poem to help us with some prompts she was about to give. Among others, the sentence Collins used to start stanza #3 in Books mentioning the voice of his mother had hit me hard on this re-read. Then, one of the prompts the moderator offered was for us to write about when we'd first been smitten by books. Now I was on fire. I was smitten by the exact verb our moderator had used, effortlessly connecting early memories of my mother and books. 

In addition, the word smitten brought to mind widely quoted advice Nabokov gave to aspiring writers about aiming for verbs that "...caress..." My brief response to the prompt, borrowing one word and one phrase from this remarkable poem, was midwifed by the caressing verb suggested by our moderator. I'm grateful for moments like this when cherished memories and words I write are fused.   

"My mother's voice was the music accompanying my introduction to books. She was the conductor; she was the score; she was the choir and the musicians. I can never repay the debt I owe her for the chords of language I've heard all my life."