It's weird to have him paying attention after years of not paying attention.
There, I was hit again with a feeling I'd had rather frequently as of late. Deep in the night, or even in broad daylight, a sense of the transitory would abruptly arise, shocking me, slapping my clueless self with the truth of my own age and how much time had already passed, and so suddenly too, it seemed. It would hit hard. And it made me want to keep hold of everything and to toss it away. How could you even talk about that? What were the words for it? I just didn't know where it all went and how it went that fast. What we lost over a lifetime seemed so great.
He's going for wisdom but the real wisdom is knowing there sometimes isn't any.
If time heals all wounds, and a book can hold a person's entire life, then you can speed up the process with a pulp time warp.
We are thickly layered, page lying upon page, behind simple covers. And love - it is not the book itself, but the binding.
Usually, I set one foot in a library and I feel my own internal volume lower. A library is a physical equivalent of a sigh. Itβs the silence, sure, but itβs also the certainty of all those books, the way they stand side by side with their still, calm conviction. Itβs the reassurance of knowledge in the face of confusion.
Writers are troubled about finding time to write and writer's block and publicizing books that aren't books yet. They agonize over how to write and what to write and what not to write.
In a lifetime, the recipe always needs amending - more of this, a little less of that, what to do now that the cake has fallen.
I understood right from the start that every set of library doors were the sort of magic portals that lead to other lands. My God, right within reach there were dinosaurs and planets and presidents and girl detectives!
It's human nature to want to help and soothe and save with your love, but it's also arrogant.
