Monday, April 11

I like the way books make me feel less superior than I usually do, when confronted with those of my current generation. They remind me that really, I’m not very intellectual or interesting at all. That many have existed before me, and probably exist around me, with greater and far more extraordinary minds; and that I will never have the mental ability or brain capacity that these people possess.  But instead of the envy I associate with those who surpass me in musical ability, or cultural experience, or good-looks, I feel only a sense of marvel. I am awed by the way they can move and inspire you. How they can cause you to feel so connected to the characters and the story, that for a brief few moments you are in fact a part of something that is not of this world, but of a world of language and prose and literary expression. How fantasy and reality are so deftly intertwined that you can no longer tell the difference. And perhaps most remarkably, how the words in the books that these people write can have such a profound impact on your perception and interpretation of the real world, even long after you’ve turned the last page.