Alas, I have yet again failed to take proper care of my journal/blog. I apologize and leave you only with the excuse of my busy schedule and recent apathy as to the public expression of the contents of my mind... While I have felt many things in varying levels of passion (some overwhelming) as of late, most of them have been things either of no importance to anybody, or of so much importance to myself that I have felt them to be private and not to be spread about the internet. (Not to mention I simply forgot and couldn't be bothered.) Anywho, I am here now in order to fill the gap regardless of the fact I am quite unaware of what I will be writing.
I suppose first I shall attempt to impress upon you the immense feeling I am often filled with and personal repeated epiphany as to the truly omnipotent powers of literature to manipulate, describe, and treat the emotions of its readers. And yes, I am aware of how often I ramble this all upon you, however it is one of the things in my life for which I am most grateful, and recently I had an extremely difficult/maturing experience in which I knew not what to do to calm my nerves. Of course, my first instinct was to sit down and have a good conversation with my old friend, Oscar Wilde. (And yes, I do consider a book a conversation, and it is one which should not be one-sided.) I recently purchased a collection of his works (short stories, plays, essays, etc.) due to my extreme enjoyment of his use of the English language and allegory in The Picture of Dorian Gray. I have come to find that this man is extremely brilliant, a genius with whom my soul relates, and who seems to perfectly describe my soul to me as it plays out. To quote the man himself, "How curiously it had all been revealed to me! A book of Sonnets, published nearly three hundred years ago, written by a dead hand and in honour of a dead youth, had suddenly explained to me the whole story of my soul's romance." Ironically, the exact moment I was pondering the absurdity of the idea, Wilde expressed the above quote through a character.
His works are so brilliant, so ingenious that I can hardly stand to read very much at a time, yet am conflicted by an opposite need to continue on with his writings and mark and hi-light every page... And it is due to this ability to evoke such emotion that I turned to his pages thickly painted with beauty and insight. There are those times one needs to disappear into another's story, to ponder life through the eyes of another, and to simply drown in the beauty of language; this is how I made use of Sir Wilde's wonders recently. And I have to say, it is extremely comforting and wonderful to think that another has understood and felt one's soul completely, even if hundreds of years ago. (It pains me daily to think that this wonderful man is dead... He is one of the first people I will talk to when I die.) It makes one feel slightly less alone in this world in which each human is born alone, thinks alone, and dies alone despite our desperate attempts to connect with one another. It fills one's soul and enables one to think with a slight clarity for which I am thankful.
Loves and Leeches,
Lashy
1 comment:
For what it's worth, I think that is what good writers do - have a conversation with the reader's soul. Surprisingly enough, audiobooks work the same way for me, which is good given my schedule and time in the car. I've read a couple of books lately that have really had an emotional effect in some parts. I love it when you find writers that can do that. Wish you and I liked the same genres of books.
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