I Love Books
Each Book Was A Different Mistress And Love Affair. Crime And Punishment - My First Love....
In my world of others it might be love, but in my world alone, there are two topics that are intensely central to whom I am. Because of this, they are the most difficult for me to express. They are nature and books. Both are my salvation, my strength, my protection - they are the makeup of whom I am today.
Nature shielded me when younger. Gave me a place where I belonged. It matched my intensity - made me feel whole. It was able to communicate with me in a language that I was unable to articulate, yet I knew. Surprising, even today as an older man, I am barely able to express my love affair with nature. In some ways it is too personal, or a better word - raw. A magical force that got within me, like how a minus 50 degree wind gets into your bones.
Books also have a special place for me. Growing up I found it difficult to value the same things that my peers found important. I had difficultly seeing the significance of hair, cars, clothes, pocket knifes (did not need them in my middle class neighborhood), coolness...etc. I tolerated social gatherings primarily because I did like the intimacy of being with women. However, I often found the discussions to be not very entertaining.
In my a late teens I was extremely isolated. Living on my own and growing more detached from those around me. It is just that what they spoke about, cared about, was no longer part of my world. Life was simple in my middle class neighborhood, maybe a little too slow, not sure why I did not easily follow the comfortable wave that most around me followed. But I did not.
For whatever reason I never really read a book until about the age of 18. I remember the day lying on my fold out couch in my basement apartment. Some books from home made their way to my flat. And interestingly the first book I ever picked up was Crime and Punishment by Fyodor Dostoevsky.
As I was reading I remember going into the mind of Raskolnikov and feeling his internal struggle as my own. His struggle actually matched my intensity in terms of the many things I thought about in my own life. His ex<x>pression allowed for me to express to myself. I felt that the thoughts of Dostoevsky, justified my own. This world he explored gave me hope that I would not have to be alone with my thoughts, that I could be understood. That I could think of things that so few around me cared to consider.
Once the spark was lit the fire spread. Moving my way through Orwell, Camus, Dostoevsky, Wilde, Shakespeare, Sarte, Sagan, Nietzsche, Skinner, Conrad, Thoreau, Plato, Bronte...the list goes on and on. Actually have not stopped yet.
All the books I have read have given me a world of new ideas and more importantly have given me the courage to explore my own world of ideas. I am extremely grateful to have found a love of reading and in some ways each book becomes a new found friend.
In my world of others it might be love, but in my world alone, there are two topics that are intensely central to whom I am. Because of this, they are the most difficult for me to express. They are nature and books. Both are my salvation, my strength, my protection - they are the makeup of whom I am today.
Nature shielded me when younger. Gave me a place where I belonged. It matched my intensity - made me feel whole. It was able to communicate with me in a language that I was unable to articulate, yet I knew. Surprising, even today as an older man, I am barely able to express my love affair with nature. In some ways it is too personal, or a better word - raw. A magical force that got within me, like how a minus 50 degree wind gets into your bones.
Books also have a special place for me. Growing up I found it difficult to value the same things that my peers found important. I had difficultly seeing the significance of hair, cars, clothes, pocket knifes (did not need them in my middle class neighborhood), coolness...etc. I tolerated social gatherings primarily because I did like the intimacy of being with women. However, I often found the discussions to be not very entertaining.
In my a late teens I was extremely isolated. Living on my own and growing more detached from those around me. It is just that what they spoke about, cared about, was no longer part of my world. Life was simple in my middle class neighborhood, maybe a little too slow, not sure why I did not easily follow the comfortable wave that most around me followed. But I did not.
For whatever reason I never really read a book until about the age of 18. I remember the day lying on my fold out couch in my basement apartment. Some books from home made their way to my flat. And interestingly the first book I ever picked up was Crime and Punishment by Fyodor Dostoevsky.
As I was reading I remember going into the mind of Raskolnikov and feeling his internal struggle as my own. His struggle actually matched my intensity in terms of the many things I thought about in my own life. His ex<x>pression allowed for me to express to myself. I felt that the thoughts of Dostoevsky, justified my own. This world he explored gave me hope that I would not have to be alone with my thoughts, that I could be understood. That I could think of things that so few around me cared to consider.
Once the spark was lit the fire spread. Moving my way through Orwell, Camus, Dostoevsky, Wilde, Shakespeare, Sarte, Sagan, Nietzsche, Skinner, Conrad, Thoreau, Plato, Bronte...the list goes on and on. Actually have not stopped yet.
All the books I have read have given me a world of new ideas and more importantly have given me the courage to explore my own world of ideas. I am extremely grateful to have found a love of reading and in some ways each book becomes a new found friend.
