The Scarlet Letter(2) (for a summary, please read my other Scarlet Letter post)

     Sadly, I was about halfway through the book when I discovered one of my favorite things about it. Though I immediately noticed how (regardless of how many clauses would occupy one sentence) nearly every single sentence was a truly beautiful work of art in itself and how the book assisted my arguments against others that being an introvert can be beneficial. For the first 120 pages or so, I was not aware that this book was meant to be read aloud.
     When I was younger, my dad would read me to sleep. Whether the book was At the Back of the North Wind,  Huckleberry Fin, or Little Lord Fauntleroy (which, even as the young age of 7, I refused to allow my dad to finish due to its unbearable amount of repetitiveness in its descriptions and the suck-up personality of Lord Fauntleroy), I always had fond memories of my childhood bedtime stories and the soothing sound of my dad's voice. I was on the train a few days ago, sitting down next to my dad and reaching into my bag for The Scarlet Letter, when I noticed my old man looking at the cover. I offered to return the favor of all of the books that he'd read to me. Having had done this before, my dad leaned in and I began to whisper the words of Reverend Mr. Dimmesdale into my father's ear. I read to him some more during an Art field trip, then again on a bus, then on a train again, in a car, at home, in my dad's room, while I was sitting on the radiator and he on the coach... I started to allow myself to daydream during Project Real; wanting to share every word of the book with my father and my father alone.
     I distinctly remember walking alongside my dad on the Art field trip that he'd accompanied me on. The sky was a beautiful shade of darkish gray and it was very wet outside. I was reading a part of Pearl's (Hester's daughter), and, after hearing the words aloud, I realized the extent to which Pearl was a demon-spawn, I was able to fully comprehend the immense amount beauty and eloquence in the writing of Hawthorne! I was thrilled. Reading the book aloud stimulated my imagination, making the stream the separated Pearl and her Mother more distinct, making the painful steps of Dimmesdale even harder to bare! But, perhaps, the most satisfactory and exciting part of reading the book aloud was when I was sitting in front of the space heater in my dad's room and, while reading to him, I heard him quietly snore. I had accomplished what he'd accomplished for me so many times in my early youth; a voice calming enough and a text beautiful enough to rock a person to sleep.