Essays That Matter: Marian Shtyrkov

Marian Shtyrkov
Swampscott High School
Swampscott, MA
College of Liberal Arts 

Personal Statement:
I have always been intrigued by irony -- coincidence with an amusing twist, and perhaps
appropriately so, I believe that everything happens for a reason. Amid a multitude of Russian
accents, foreign traditions, and immigrant mentalities, I developed a distinct affinity for English
as a literary art. An aspiring English or likewise related major, I write, describe, and muse in the
language of my education, my friends, and my predominant culture. There is nothing which
cannot be accounted for with an explanation and even my geeky penchant for literature, which I
readily acknowledge having, originates in a presence from my earliest recollections and a
childhood delight.
Some memories are like hazy photographs, colored in a sepia tone and faded along the
edges, while others are vibrant and acute, where the particular emotions of the moment reignite
with a vengeful or conversely, sweet strength at the moment of reminiscing. Every now and
again, I have difficulty distinguishing between that which I earnestly remember and that which
has been crystallized from my parents' most frequently repeated stories. Regardless, I see with
precise clarity how my wet hair would drip onto the towel that had been carefully wrapped
around my shoulders, and how I had my favorite pajamas on as I snuggled closer to my
grandfather and eagerly bounced on the rickety mattress; I was looking up at the gentle, calming
voice that read stories to me every night and more importantly, that emulated a warmth and
intellect to an extent beyond my understanding. We would flip through the pages together as I
examined the pictures and listened to his thoughtful narrating, careful not to tear the thin paper.
If I discovered a ripped page, we would tape the injury and mend our literary patient. My grandfather always taught that a novel is a treasure and a companion -- an object that deserves
respect and affection. His belief is one that I continue to indulge in with a childlike sincerity and
interestingly, I have an odd aversion to crinkled paper.
My grandfather read extensively and in emulation, so did I. Sitting in his armchair beside
the window with a book on my lap, I studied the pages with an intense, curious concentration
while my grandfather reread a favorite Russian classic he had brought from overseas. It was
during those quiet mornings that I learned the power of literature, for before I could read, I
imagined extensive stories that later, I would rapidly divulge to my grandfather as he would
prepare us lunch. They varied vastly and concluded in precocious babbling, but even then,
words had the magical ability to construct a symphony of events and play with the fabric of
reality; at that moment, it was all about illusion and fairytales, yet with time, those stories
became more greatly intertwined with perceptions of truth, rather than fantasy. As my
grandfather had animated his tales, I sought in literature a sense of enlivenment that could color
the world as a child would the pages of a coloring book. Today, I read to feel -- to entertain a
parallel sense of reality, for fictional prose portrays humanity's emotions, uncertainties,
tendencies, and flaws in a manner which both beckons retrospection and depicts our truths in an
alternate light. As all art, literature has the intrinsic ability to produce feeling, for to read a truly
masterful text is to partake in a deeply personal and intimate conversation between the author
and yourself.
As I learned to read, I delved further into the realm that my grandfather had so
beautifully, so gently presented a glimpse into. I discovered a library that seemed to extend
infinitely in all directions -- an archive of thought, idea, and sentiment. Although now I cannot
thank my grandfather for the inspiration that he has provided, I can only hope that my continuing
interest in literature will immortalize his spirit, his presence in my life.
As C.S. Lewis eruditely stated, “Literature adds to reality, it does not simply describe it.
It enriches the necessary competencies that daily life requires and provides...” But then again, it
was Oscar Wilde who said that, “Quotation is a serviceable substitute for wit.”