(16 May 2010)
I’m searching for a suitable world to immerse myself in while I get used to my role as reader and faintly, maybe writer. Is it me, or is it the books I have picked up lately? Why is it that nothing enthuses, amazes or enchants any more? Or is it that 1) Non-Fiction is not an area I should venture into; 2) I shall have to continue the search for an author I can resonate with? The current stock being exhausted?
I’ve also become extraordinarily timid in venturing into unknown waters. I have of course, a dislike of too much reality in my reading; much preferring the comforting prism of metaphor, fantasy and re-made, plastic worlds. To an extent it’s the fear of disappointment really. When I buy a book, I want to be delighted. Anything else will not do.
I want to be soothed. I want to be amazed at the sparkle of the writer’s imagined world. A world that does not mirror the drabness surrounding us. What is the use of that? Too much verisimilitude for me is moribund death. Might as well video record the world.
No, books are the vehicles of transcendence; with the light of the sun and the moon shining a little keener, sharper, gentler – with the world soul swirling ever past and a great heart of joy and sorrow waiting to tell you its story….
That is the book I am waiting for.