It
is difficult for me to finish a book. I can, but not without
dismantling it. I do not mean this in the sense of pulling its binding
apart or tearing at its imposition until it resembles the remains of an
old accordion although I have done so with a required reading or two in
my time. My brain pores over each line of text with its fine-tooth comb,
with the inquisitiveness of an Edward Stratemeyer character.
Reading can sometimes be very exhausting for me, but unfortunately for all the right reasons. Simply, I am intrigued and so I dismantle. I explore each sentence and word with an appreciation for their placement, and the understanding that a writer addresses their work with the same meticulousness and peculiarity of any other specialist, but mind you, specialists who rely on writing just the same. I want to know them. What are they saying? And, why? Much of what I read, be it fiction, biographies & memoirs, psychology, history, current affairs, cultural, multicultural, social, religion, reference, narratives, self-help, blog entries, and facebook posts, the similarities are stark. All that I've read consists of some central burden and intent with existence as its crux. The more I read the more I realize that this theme is an undertone being played out in all areas of life for all time. This seems valid irrespective of media or "progress".
A book is but an observation; an examination; an explanation; an interpretation; a consideration; an investigation. Writing is an attempt to affect, make contact with, express, inform, and so on. Oftentimes, its aim is a combination of any of the above. Human expression is man's labyrinth. It is their existential entanglement; like wisps of smoke in an intimate embrace that inexhaustibly turn under, up, and over. It is their desire to know and make known, collapsing in on and reinvigorating itself——Ouroboros. It documents the eternal return.
I recognize this in others just as readily as I do in myself. I can't help myself. I choose not to. I am captivated by man's dogged determination to make sense of sense. I am amused and bemused all at once, by no matter how intricate things seem, and no matter how convinced we've become of the passage of time, that "the more things change, the more they remain the same." Writing (and so books) simply record the phenomenon; different reactions to and renderings of the same phenomenon. And that is why it is so difficult for me to finish a book.
As long ago as 25,000-30,000 years BP humans have been writing. What my fellow man has to say, why and how they say it fascinates me to no end. I am an homage. I am a slow reader because I value each word as it was written. I explore the meaning of what is being said. I internalize it. I feel or relate to it. It is the art of empathy. I approach a text with the same amount of inquisitiveness and open-mindedness that I'd like for people to approach me with. I enjoy the vulnerability; the naked playfulness of it all. There is nothing more naked than exposing ones mind to unveil its truths. I can not help but to carefully and attentively examine such a thing whenever the opportunity arises. I am a slow reader, in a world where there are more than books to read.
Be Well, Loved Ones...
Albert
Reading can sometimes be very exhausting for me, but unfortunately for all the right reasons. Simply, I am intrigued and so I dismantle. I explore each sentence and word with an appreciation for their placement, and the understanding that a writer addresses their work with the same meticulousness and peculiarity of any other specialist, but mind you, specialists who rely on writing just the same. I want to know them. What are they saying? And, why? Much of what I read, be it fiction, biographies & memoirs, psychology, history, current affairs, cultural, multicultural, social, religion, reference, narratives, self-help, blog entries, and facebook posts, the similarities are stark. All that I've read consists of some central burden and intent with existence as its crux. The more I read the more I realize that this theme is an undertone being played out in all areas of life for all time. This seems valid irrespective of media or "progress".
A book is but an observation; an examination; an explanation; an interpretation; a consideration; an investigation. Writing is an attempt to affect, make contact with, express, inform, and so on. Oftentimes, its aim is a combination of any of the above. Human expression is man's labyrinth. It is their existential entanglement; like wisps of smoke in an intimate embrace that inexhaustibly turn under, up, and over. It is their desire to know and make known, collapsing in on and reinvigorating itself——Ouroboros. It documents the eternal return.
I recognize this in others just as readily as I do in myself. I can't help myself. I choose not to. I am captivated by man's dogged determination to make sense of sense. I am amused and bemused all at once, by no matter how intricate things seem, and no matter how convinced we've become of the passage of time, that "the more things change, the more they remain the same." Writing (and so books) simply record the phenomenon; different reactions to and renderings of the same phenomenon. And that is why it is so difficult for me to finish a book.
As long ago as 25,000-30,000 years BP humans have been writing. What my fellow man has to say, why and how they say it fascinates me to no end. I am an homage. I am a slow reader because I value each word as it was written. I explore the meaning of what is being said. I internalize it. I feel or relate to it. It is the art of empathy. I approach a text with the same amount of inquisitiveness and open-mindedness that I'd like for people to approach me with. I enjoy the vulnerability; the naked playfulness of it all. There is nothing more naked than exposing ones mind to unveil its truths. I can not help but to carefully and attentively examine such a thing whenever the opportunity arises. I am a slow reader, in a world where there are more than books to read.
Be Well, Loved Ones...
Albert
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