She changed me at every stage of my life, transforming me into a better, more conscious being. She stepped in whenever the world cracked and crumbled under the weight of difficulties. A patron of the uncertain, yet receptive; queen of the wise, yet doubting. Her name? Literature.

It was back when I probably still couldn’t read on my own that I heard a story, told by my mother’s mother, about a mythical bard named Orpheus, who made great things happen with his music and poetry. When recalling this myth, my grandmother Olga placed great emphasis on Orpheus’s therapeutic power. His music, along with his skills as a bard, were capable of pacifying the angry, or bribing the guards of inaccessible realms—such as those in the underworld of Hades—as well as calming the raging oceans. His songs made trees bow, boulders crumble, and turned predatory animals into benign creatures.

I don’t know where my grandmother heard or read about this remarkable offspring of the gods. Most likely at school, as the popular Polish book on Greek and Roman myths was definitely not on our family bookshelf. Besides, she was not a diligent reader. Or maybe she just didn’t have the time, needing to take care of a bunch of kids—and later grandkids—as well as a house perpetually dirtied by grandpa’s enthusiasm for all kinds of animals. Most often she would simply steal a moment to read whatever newspaper or booklet fell into her lap. She also enjoyed overhearing stories. Whether it was while waiting in line at the grocery store, or on the bus, she’d eavesdrop whenever she had the chance. She would weave together all the stories she gathered during the day into an evening tale for her grandchildren,