As she wrote these words, “A great book is a person, a person whose essence, whose being you yearn to smother in,” cast in the middle of an essay, Afnan Farooqui, did not anticipate an invitation to a university.

While searching online for prospective universities, Afnan came upon Carleton University’s Humanities Bachelor of Humanities High School Essay Competition asking for high school students to describe in 1,000 words, “What is a great book?”

The purpose of the contest was to highlight the fact that students of humanities read the most influential books and study the most exciting ideas in all the traditional arts disciplines — literature, philosophy, history, art, music, political theory, and religion, according to the competition promotion.

Afnan, an S4 CedarBridge Academy student decided she wanted to participate.

After reading her essay the panel offered an opportunity to apply to their humanities programme, stating, “Given your talent as a writer and your evident passion for great books, I cannot help but think that you would be an ideal fit for our bachelor of humanities (Great Books) programme. I urge you to take a look at our website and to consider us for your undergraduate studies.”

Afnan received an e-mail from the committee that said, “It brings me great pleasure to inform you that your essay, What is a Great Book, has been chosen by our selection committee as the winner of this year’s Bachelor of Humanities Essay Contest. The judges found your work to be very powerful, moving, and original. It was also extremely well-written. You are clearly a very talented young writer, and we encourage you to nurture this gift.”

She was also mailed a check for $500 Canadian.

The bachelor of humanities is also known as Carleton Great Book Programme. Carleton University is located in Ottawa, Canada.

Here is her winning essay.

What is a Great Book?

It is the expiration of apathy. The quiet, fumbling breathing of the mind moving backwards. It is the comfort of a warm hand — the obstinate unease at life — the vulnerability of seeking pleasure. It is the manifestation of the heart, and it is the presence of cruelty — the cruelty of a gentle touch, of a painful tenderness — as it clumsily gropes out at our flesh. It is made up of an introduction, a greeting, a hello stuck on the page — and in between is the nuances, the technicalities — all trying to wiggle through to the end and escape out and into your body.

It is an excuse to destroy all notions, and henceforth create from what was once so venerated, so adored, and now dead. It is bothering, and sometimes grotesque in the ways of its eloquence; and it will almost always abandon you at critical times.

In its absence, you realise.

Rather, it realises, it becomes. In that room, that house of yours — in the head, the soul — breathing softly, sleeping well.

Upstairs.

It’s

Down

stairs.

Under

the bed.

A great book never concerns itself with time. It goes on, and walks further as we look on, jealous. Mournful.

It brushes past you on the street.

It gives you a side-glance on the train.

A great book is a person, a person whose essence, whose being you yearn to smother in.

You want to swallow it, you want to burn it. You want to breathe in it, sleep in it, for only a moment — a minute — never mind forever.

All violent acts of love, all rational acts of madness! — A great book is not treasure, its luck.

It’s not a form of escape, it’s a desire to elope. To writhe your hands around its neck, to deceive it, to bury it.

It cuts your gums as you murmur the words, and the words an idiotic stumbling of letters, and the letters enamoured and fevered as I.

A great book gets caught in your hair; grows in the crevices of cement. You hide it under your pillow when you’re five, you think it’s lurking in the closets when you’re six. You wish you had feared it more. You wish you had loved it more, and loved all things more, as each sinking thought, each blink and breathe — comes that feeling — that phantom feeling of your hand scraping the page as you turn the paper. It is the ghost of your fingers, all pervasive and vicious, caressing the cover; and it returning the favour.

Great books talk a lot — and talk about many things. Sometimes all great books do is talk about the news, and the places, and the people in the places. Sometimes the weather, and sometimes theories of politics, and secret societies, and world domination.

Small talk.

And sometimes they talk about dying, and who they think they’re in love with, and who they think are their enemies. They speak many tongues, and are used for many reasons. Great books are a weapon, a loud objection at human suffering; a way to power; a way to injure others; a way to make yourself happy.

Great books corrupt you, deceiving you into believing a reality never truly rooted in this one — whether worse, or better. With a foot on this ground and a foot on the other side of the door, they do what is always a struggle — speak freely, with no thought of consequence, censorship, or codes. Because great books are not scared of the Thought Police. Because each life is a divine comedy, a satire, a stirring tragedy of the one before it.

Great books listen — to each human thought, each endeavour, each capacity to feel. To struggle.

They listen for that story; and that story about a young girl whose life you’re about to destroy and find so lovely; they look for a Lola, a Humbert. A great book is kind. It lies in truthful ways; in Seven Commandments; in Catch-22’s. A great book is human error. It anticipates it. It lives within the greatness, the vulgarity, which is the man. It reflects beyond good and evil — beyond the things we carry — for all great books were made by man, and to man it shall return to. The ears of great books, you see, are always inclined to hear the human thought and speculation. They can’t help but what they see — You. And I.

These involuntary whispers — your lips, parting in small, quiet movements — are moving to the sound of words whistling low tunes. Lurching forward — the soul is — leaning close, to hear the dying and dim voices of a stranger beckoning you to come close. Have a look. It murmurs. Listen well. This aching madness of a disquiet urgency — to kneel down and refuse to pray, to lay on your back and refuse to rest — how sickening, and yet how natural I feel it to be! A great book devours. It eats you as it digests the warm bodies of others; it chews on you between its gnawing stinging teeth, with its rolling tongue wet beneath the body. It spits you out. It steps on you. It kisses your forehead as you fall asleep — and then it walks away.

A great book is an excuse. An excuse to, at least for a moment — a minute — never mind forever — feel closely, and feel well enough to live profoundly.