Do you ever get scared that you’ve thought everything that you’re ever going to think? Is that why oldsters seem to do nothing but reminisce? Occasionally I wonder, are all my great ideas behind me? Am I just going to bore myself to death? Probably not.
Just finished reading Night and Day by Virginia Woolf. It was a morbidly fascinating roller coaster ride, an emotional orgy. My final thought was “My God, if that is what went on in that poor woman’s brain 24/7 it’s no wonder she walked into a river with rocks in her pocket. It must have been exhausting. The book just…ended… No tidy wrap up, not resolution, no happily every after or final tragedy. Just endless emotional upheaval, and never-ending, gut wrenching introspection, probably until the end of all lives in the book. If it hadn’t been on Kindle I would have thrown it across the room.
Now I’m in a temporary canoodle of obsession. Am I thinking too much, not enough. What I think today is I’m going to be more careful researching the life of an author before reading one of the “classics.”
When I read a book that causes an overall negative effect on my emotional stability it always turns out the author lived a miserable life, was an alcoholic, died penniless in a flophouse, committed suicide, or some other tragic state of existence. Hemingway has this effect. I tried to like his books but I always ended up sad or angry or both by the end of the book.
I can see why people think books are dangerous. They can be wonderful too. I just need to be more selective about what I put in my brain.