Friday, August 17

I am thinking, what would I do without books - or, more precisely, without literature?

Probably the following:
  • read less
  • go out more
  • be less pedantic/ annoyingly choosy/ awkward
  • have less extremes of mood...

there is a catch, with that last one. With the elation, glee almost of literature, comes the apprehension of tipping over the edge, of dipping one's head too far into thought or pondering so that it never comes out quite the same again (they do change us, books, poems, stories; of course they do; even if we dislike them, even if we don't think much about them, they do nevertheless change us, somehow...), and perhaps we end up soaked too much.

But I am glad. So very, very, very glad, for being able to dissolve into someone else's world, much like Will into Lyra's.


PS recent enjoyment: listening out for when people say things, in the hope of provoking an outburst of reaction, and then reacting so fantastically calmly that they end up pissed off. Try it, go on...


Rereading, I realise I ought to qualify 'literature', oughtnt I? I'm not going to; at least, not today.

Thursday, August 16