My mom used to tell me stories at night, read books to me - and I

Hear the words of Peter Guber, spoken with the tenderness of remembrance and the insight of one who has reflected deeply upon the seeds of his own becoming: “My mom used to tell me stories at night, read books to me—and I read ’em over and over and over again. And you know what I learned from that? I went back and looked at everything—Why do I like reading the same stories over and over and over again? What, was I some kind of nincompoop? No—the narrative gave me connection with my mom.” In this utterance lies the profound truth that the essence of storytelling is not mere entertainment, but communion of souls.

The meaning of his words is clear: as children, we cling to stories, not only for their adventures and wonders, but because they bind us to those who share them with us. The tale itself becomes a thread, weaving the child’s heart to the parent’s presence, turning words on a page into living bridges of connection. This is why repetition does not bore the child; it deepens the bond. Each retelling becomes not just memory but ritual, sacred in its familiarity.

The ancients knew this well. Around fires in the dark, parents and elders told tales to children—not only to teach, but to give assurance, to plant courage, to tie the young to the wisdom of the old. A story was never just a story; it was an inheritance, a flame passed from one generation to the next. What Guber realized in his reflection is what humankind has always known in its bones: that to tell stories is to love, and to be loved in return.

Consider the story of Helen Keller and her teacher Anne Sullivan. Though Keller was blind and deaf, Sullivan found a way to reach her through the persistence of language and repeated signs. The words themselves were not simply instruction; they became lifelines of connection, granting Keller not only knowledge but relationship. What might have been isolation was transformed into communion. In this we see again the truth of Guber’s words: it is not the novelty of the story that matters, but the bond it forges.

His childhood experience also reminds us that what we seek in art, literature, and narrative is not escape alone, but relationship. The book read aloud, the story shared in laughter or tears, the film watched together—these become vessels of connection, anchoring us to one another even in a world of chaos. It is not foolish to return again and again to the same tale; it is wise, for in its repetition we remember who we are, and who we belong to.

The lesson, O seeker, is this: honor the stories you share with others. Do not dismiss the child who wants to hear the same tale for the tenth time, for they are not seeking novelty, but comfort, presence, and love. Do not rush through the words you offer, for they may be remembered long after your voice has faded. Every tale, however small, can become an anchor in the heart of another, a bond that endures beyond time.

Practical is this counsel: read aloud to your children, your family, your friends. Tell them the tales you were told, and let them tell theirs to you. Make time for ritual and repetition, for these shape not only memory but trust. And when you reflect on your own life, seek the narratives that gave you strength, and honor the people who shared them with you.

Thus Peter Guber’s words shine as revelation: “The narrative gave me connection with my mom.” This is the true power of story—it is not only the path to wisdom, but the bridge to love. Let us never forget it, and let us pass it on, that each generation may know that stories are not mere words, but the very fabric of belonging.