Fill in The Blanks

Lady Susan
Jane Austen

Crime and Punishment
Fyodor Dostoyevsky | English version translated by Constance Garnett

This Side of Paradise
F. Scott Fitzgerald

It has been a psychological/philosophical/phonetic/melodramatic/realistic/whatever-the-phrase-is week. Been reading a couple of books that reveal few reflections to myself.

Sort of peculiar when I muse why all of them are almost two hundred years old..

Well, that is a silly thing to say anyway. Because any books you read, unbearable or not, certainly will be a mirror to your own self. Whatever the book is, how *old* the story is, however your feeling to the book is. It is still an outcome of your own choice--which, of course, in a different weight and density, still have a reflection of yourself.

So, Moby Dick or Harry Potter, Dubliners, Doraemon; they are. Though I still doubt they could reflect the entire identity of yours. As in there isn't a single way for 'em.

Yet, in some rare times, a certain book, come knocking some things. Some reflections, some facts that you actually already know long ago, but you kept it safe in a silver case somewhere in the corner of your mind.

Most of the time maybe it will be an uncomfortable moment, the turn up of the facts. You can welcome it with a bitter smile and a silent chuckling, or just finish it in silent and throw the book to the wall. The brush, is still in your hand.

What to draw next?

No comments:

Post a Comment