Reading and Eating
I have just been reading a book and been overcome with a powerful emotion. I won't mention which book because, although this book is marvellous it is but one of the many thousand which could have prompted this feeling.
It brought tears to my eyes and gave me a sort of dull deep pain, like desire. I had stopped reading for a moment, and sat staring out of the window and I smelt the distinctive scent of the second-hand book. I was pondering something of the book's content but this was a rather dry abstract philosophising - the content did not directly prompt my sudden emotion. Instead, I was overcome with the realisation that I'd picked up this book - like many in my collection - off a street-curb where it was to be given or thrown away. This book, which was capable of giving me so much - capable of stimulating me, absorbing me, completely removing me from my own narrow perspective, capable of implanting thought and inciting emotion more surely than any dream-inception device - had been an item gathered from the trash like an old TV.
As far as I can see, in no field other than literature is it possible to experience the absolute pinnacle of human excellence with no other pre-requisite than a desire to do so. This particular book cost me nothing. I have picked up many books like this. The majority of the rest were gotten second-hand for less than the price of a cheeseburger. Among them I have a selection of the thoughts of the greatest thinkers and writers for, say, 50 cents a pop.
When I read while I eat I often have the sensation that I am occupied in the raw minimum of existence. Pragmatically, as a biological entity, I can survive with food and drink alone. This survival, however, does not constitute life. Many people (including myself) live what is essentially an embellished version of this biological survival, embellished with the condiments of the putative purpose of a profession and a certain superficial sheen of socialising. Without the ability to gain true insight into the minds of other people, this survival is a pale imitation of life. To gain true insight into the minds of other people requires either that most shockingly rare thing - a deep intellectual relationship with another person unmarred by either's ego or ulterior motives - or a book for 50 cents.
I realise what I've written probably seems pretentious and even perhaps a little unhinged (my writing has at times provoked the fear in my mother that I use mind-altering drugs, which, aside from alcohol, is unfounded) but actually what I'm trying to put into words is a very simple feeling. It is a wonder at my unrestricted, unconditional ability to be privy to - to consume calmly with a Chianti or guzzle greedily with a reheated pizza - the most profound thoughts of perfect strangers.
It brought tears to my eyes and gave me a sort of dull deep pain, like desire. I had stopped reading for a moment, and sat staring out of the window and I smelt the distinctive scent of the second-hand book. I was pondering something of the book's content but this was a rather dry abstract philosophising - the content did not directly prompt my sudden emotion. Instead, I was overcome with the realisation that I'd picked up this book - like many in my collection - off a street-curb where it was to be given or thrown away. This book, which was capable of giving me so much - capable of stimulating me, absorbing me, completely removing me from my own narrow perspective, capable of implanting thought and inciting emotion more surely than any dream-inception device - had been an item gathered from the trash like an old TV.
As far as I can see, in no field other than literature is it possible to experience the absolute pinnacle of human excellence with no other pre-requisite than a desire to do so. This particular book cost me nothing. I have picked up many books like this. The majority of the rest were gotten second-hand for less than the price of a cheeseburger. Among them I have a selection of the thoughts of the greatest thinkers and writers for, say, 50 cents a pop.
When I read while I eat I often have the sensation that I am occupied in the raw minimum of existence. Pragmatically, as a biological entity, I can survive with food and drink alone. This survival, however, does not constitute life. Many people (including myself) live what is essentially an embellished version of this biological survival, embellished with the condiments of the putative purpose of a profession and a certain superficial sheen of socialising. Without the ability to gain true insight into the minds of other people, this survival is a pale imitation of life. To gain true insight into the minds of other people requires either that most shockingly rare thing - a deep intellectual relationship with another person unmarred by either's ego or ulterior motives - or a book for 50 cents.
I realise what I've written probably seems pretentious and even perhaps a little unhinged (my writing has at times provoked the fear in my mother that I use mind-altering drugs, which, aside from alcohol, is unfounded) but actually what I'm trying to put into words is a very simple feeling. It is a wonder at my unrestricted, unconditional ability to be privy to - to consume calmly with a Chianti or guzzle greedily with a reheated pizza - the most profound thoughts of perfect strangers.
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